


Reverse Engineering

by thistlesloth



Series: A New Take on Reality [1]
Category: Granblue Fantasy (Video Game)
Genre: (Because Lucilius), Clarisse is trying, Content Warning: Lucio and Belial, Feels, First Kiss, Fix-It, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Found Family, Gen, Gran and Djeeta are little shits, HOW DID I FORGET TO TAG THE MAIN PREMISE FOR ELEVEN CHAPTERS, I have no idea what I'm doing, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Look at it, Lucio is a well-meaning troll, Lyria is a cinnamon roll, M/M, Post-What Makes the Sky Blue III: 000 (Granblue Fantasy), Seriously we're six chapters in and half of the main pairing isn't even here yet, Slow Build, cags: gddit lucilius you ruined a perfectly good angel, it's got anxiety, local angel discovers gay feelings, local chaotic good and chaotic evil pansexuals have hilarious chemistry, no beta we die like men, twin singularities (because both Gran and Djeeta deserve love dangit), you know what this needs? another goddamn slow burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-04
Updated: 2019-10-14
Packaged: 2020-01-04 12:45:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 24
Words: 39,378
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18343958
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thistlesloth/pseuds/thistlesloth
Summary: Because the astrals may have built the primal beasts - but anything they can do, she can do better.





	1. Spitballing

**Author's Note:**

> *hurls this on the pile of WMTSB: 000 fix-its*
> 
> Because I'm so goddamn sick of the queerbaiting and the almosts and the little eh-eh nudges and the god-damned killing of our god-damned gay angels. So here, have a slow-ass slow-burn that's gonna be like 90% gen for the first five chapters, because fixing shit takes time. (Also because Cags is a precious beautiful angel of death and snark and I'm really enjoying writing her.)

Cagliostro is poring over some of Clarisse’s new hypotheticals (silently wondering how someone could be simultaneously so brilliant and so _mind-bogglingly stupid_ ) when she hears a soft shuffling at the door to her chambers on the _Grandcypher_. When no knock comes, though the quiet noises remain, she stifles a sigh, checks her chronometer (why is this idiot bothering her at _two in the morning_?) - and flicks Ouroboros at the door with a mute command to open it, unwilling to budge from her comfortable armchair to scold the interloper.

 The muffled cry of surprise her creation evokes, however, pricks her ears up, because that voice is neither Gran, Djeeta, Clarisse, nor even Gabriel - though that last one is closest, as the ancient toddler sprawled at her doorstep is indeed a primarch. The supreme primarch, to be exact.

 Cagliostro sets her handful of scribbled formulae aside, and hops out of her chair, picking up her lantern and holding it to one side as she approaches the coltish primal sitting on her floor. “So, what could you want from little old me at this time of night, hmm? I didn’t think you were interested in cute girls!”

 That gets him moving, bouncing to his feet with an expression of red-faced dismay so hilarious she buckles over with the giggles before he can speak - wags the lantern in a silent indication to wait as she sets it on the larger worktable nearer the door, grinning. “No? Out with it then, what’re you here for, Sandalphon?”

 It takes him a moment of fidgeting and shuffling, but then he pulls a soft white feather from somewhere (she makes a note to bother Gabriel about the mechanism of primarchs’ instant materializing and dematerializing of the exact same object) and, clearly reluctant but forcing himself all the same, places it on the table in front of her.

 She squints at it, up at him, back down at it, raises her eyebrows wordlessly as she pins him with her gaze.

 “You - know how to make bodies, right?” His tone is warbly with what she recognizes with no little glee as _raw terror_. “Please?”

 “You haven’t asked me _for_ anything yet, coffee boy.” She considers the plume for a moment longer, then scoops it up and tucks it behind her ear, grabs the primarch by the wrist, and tows him behind her as she makes for the galley. “If you’re going to be harassing me for things, you may as well do something useful and make me a cup in exchange.”

 Sandalphon, far from flailing like a wildcat as she'd expected, instead _squeaks_ and goes without even a token struggle - and the grin falls off her face a little when she realizes how _serious_ the little idiot is.

 He doesn’t say a word as he’s towed over to his special coffee corner and nudged into action (it takes a good three pokes to the small of the back before he starts moving of his own volition) and Cagliostro, perched on one of the high stools tucked under the lip of the kitchen island, taps her heels against its legs and watches. It’s clear to anyone with an artisan’s eye that he’s _not_ of direct astral make; he’s nearly human in his smallness and grumpiness, in his careful-to-the-point-of-fussiness attention to the coffee beans roasting in their queer contraption on the counter. Although, she concedes, that’s not _quite_ fair; Gabriel and the others can seem as human as any of the rest of the crew when they want to.

 It just seems to come more naturally to Sandalphon. Not always a good thing, that, especially combined with the power of a primarch, but it has its charms.

 And now that she’s sure he’s absorbed in his coffeemaking (he’s mumbling to himself, how adorable) she plucks the feather from where she’d placed it behind her ear, and examines it more closely, tracing a diagnostic circle on the island with a fingertip and channeling it into the little thing.

 Almost immediately she drops it, wincing like she expects it to make a noise when it hits the counter, but it doesn’t - it’s a feather, of course it doesn’t! - simply settling beneath her hand, shimmering warmly, faintly white.

 She steels herself for the jolt of power she now knows to expect before she picks it back up, feeling her way through the ridiculous heft of the magic clinging to it. It’s from the ex-primarch’s wings, she realizes, and remembers abruptly that dreadful day when Gran and Djeeta had brought Sandalphon back with them from Canaan. Both the twins had been tight-lipped and teary-eyed - and then, of course, there’d been the fight with that beastly multi-cored astral weapon and the disgustingly raunchy primal and the little sparrow with a swan's wings and, oh.

 He wants her to remake the old supreme primarch, doesn’t he?

 She lets the thought wash over her, wrap her up - and when she really considers it, she realizes that yes, okay, this is _exciting._ This is a _project_ \- this is something to lose herself in for days and weeks and months and ooh, she’s getting goosebumps because this is a chance to prove to an entirely new generation of skydwellers that she is completely, definitively, entirely above and beyond the level of the astrals who were her contemporaries.

 Oh, this is going to be _fun._

 She startles as a cup and saucer clink down in front of her, as Sandalphon plucks the feather from her hand, cranberry eyes downcast as he toes out a stool on the other side of the island and sits, the steam of the coffee causing his messy bangs to curl. His feet don’t reach the ground when he’s sitting on one of these stools, either, and in the low light of the night-dimmed lamps, he looks very young.

 Cagliostro has absolutely no interest in motherhood, but at the same time she _does_ want to take this particularly dumb little sparrow under her own wing. She gives herself long enough to take a sip of her coffee, intentionally rattles the cup against the saucer as she sets it down so he’ll look at her, and all but backhands him with her conclusion. “You want me to make your primarch a new body?”

 Sandalphon jolts, coffee sloshing into his saucer, over his thumb, as he looks up at her with an expression of shocked hope. She grins a shark’s grin. “I’ll do it, but you’re going to owe me more than a plea and a cup of coffee when all’s said and done, I hope you realize.” Sips from her cup again, letting the intricate flavors of the drink roll across her tongue. “Though it’s good enough to count towards the payment, at least.”

 The supreme primarch, twelve winged and two thousand years old, murmurs a breathless little “thank you,” and all but disappears behind a rustling curtain of cream-and-brown feathers. Only cream-and-brown, strangely. Only two.

 “You can pick how many you bring out at a time, hmm?” The alchemist knocks back the rest of her coffee, hops off her stool and slips over to poke at the archangel’s pinions. “You know, I don’t have terribly much data on you primals to begin with - never wanted much to do with those idiots and their slave-making - so I’m going to be picking you apart before I make your boy. Unless you want me to improve him by making him a cute little girl like me?”

 Sandalphon’s feathers ruffle, but the wings don’t budge, and she sighs, gives the wall of plumage an impulsive little pat. “Well. We’ll discuss further terms later, I think - even cute genius alchemists like me need sleep sometimes, and now is my sometimes.”

 And she trundles off back to her room - but she stops at her worktable before she does actually go to bed, and makes a note to get Gabriel to bring her back to that Astral laboratory next time she sees her.

 If she’s going to remake a primarch (and the thought is completely titillating), she’s damn well going to do it right.

 

* * *

 

Sandalphon sits there for - he’s not sure how long he sits there, cradling a half-drunk cup of coffee that’s long-since cold when he remembers it.

  _Pick apart,_ she’d said. He knows what that means.

 He drinks the stale remnants of his cup, sets it aside, and curls his knees to his chest, tucking his wings (only his, not the primarchs’ and especially not Lucifer’s, just the plain, drab appendages that belong to him alone) around himself like a feathery cocoon. It’s dark in the shadow of his plumage, dark and warm and a little bit musty because he hasn’t bothered preening in ages and, well, why bother if he’s going to be vivisected (again) tomorrow?

 He cringes a little, grits his teeth because he _knows_ what that feels like, and debates the merits of telling Cagliostro to be careful with his core, that he needs it to come back if she kills his body. On the one hand, it might be useful for her to be aware of that limitation, if she’s intent on really figuring out what makes him tick (and she’d better be, if she’s going to be _bringing Lucifer back_ ) - on the other, if she knows already, she might take offense.

 Offending someone who’s going to be digging around your insides is not a good idea. He learned _that_ early, and relearned it often.

 


	2. Flowcharting

Cagliostro’s sleep is restful but not peaceful; her dreams all memories of crafting Ouroboros, of designing her own body, interspersed with sick recollections of the vile, weak carcass she’d been trapped in before she’d built her alchemical chrysalis and emerged beautiful and strong. Helpfully enough, the dreams have pushed the formulas and facts she used the first time to the forefront of her mind, and before she’s rolled out of bed, she has a basic ( _very_ basic; she’s a genius but not completely omniscient _yet_ ) idea of how she’s going to progress with this.

 Clarisse is still dead to the world when Cagliostro bursts into her room, rouses only enough to be bleary-eyed and grumbly as she’s dragged into the galley, as she plops onto a stool and drops her head on her folded arms and -

 Cagliostro stifles a yelp when she turns and _there Sandalphon is_ \- plants her hands on her hips and scowls at him. “Is there a _reason_ you’re inside my bubble, coffee boy?”

 He has the decency to look sheepish, reaches up to the little shelf just above eye level and extracts a small tin from behind the fruit bowl. “I was going to ask if you and Clarisse wanted coffee.”

 “Oh. Well then!” She claps her hands. “Yes, please! We’re going to need the energy.”

 She pauses, watches him go to his little corner - remembers how small and _sad_ the idiot little bird was last night and bites back a sigh. “Coffee boy, how do you feel about pancakes?”

  _He_ jumps, and she momentarily considers rescinding the offer - but then he shrugs. “If you’re making them, I like them well enough.” A brief hesitation, and then he muffles out a grudging, “thank you.”

 “Yeah, well, you’re on coffee duty, coffee boy, so you’re going to be _earning_ this breakfast.” She huffs, fishing a mixing bowl and whisk and the tins of flour, sugar, and baking powder from under the counter.

 She doesn’t cook often - why should she, when she can whip up almost anything she wants with barely a thought? - but sometimes she finds the process helpful for putting her thoughts in order. Physical alchemy and cooking have enough similarities that following a well-known recipe is conducive to putting her mind into the right shape for what she needs to do and - well - after all, while cute little girl bodies are as easy for her as breathing now, something closer in size and shape to Sandalphon is going to be quite the alteration to her process.

 Measuring the flour and whisking the eggs and maybe cheating a little to alchemize milk and butter and perhaps a few out-of-stock spices to add to the batter pull her focus smooth and taut, and by the time she’s oiled the griddle and started ladling out plate-sized cakes’ worth of her mixture, she’s scraped together the most important twenty questions she needs to ask Sandalphon to start compiling formulae.

 When Clarisse joins her, a mug (not one of his eggshell china cups, she has to give the dumb little sparrow points for that singular nugget of sense) of coffee in hand and her usual energy beginning to peek through, Cagliostro is deep enough in work-mode that she actually smiles.

 When her student reaches for the spatula, she’s even feeling charitable enough to let her have it - and between them, they quickly turn out enough pancakes to feed the entire ridiculously-enormous crew.

 

* * *

 

The alchemists and the primal take their own plates out onto the deck as the rest of the crew (led, of course, by Lyria, Djeeta, and Gran) begin to filter into the galley, and the clatter of dishes and low buzz of chatter is the soundtrack to their short stroll. They bicker for a moment over whether to go inside versus stay on deck, and eventually settle on one of the benches bolted down near the prow, Sandalphon on one end and Cagliostro on the other with Clarisse sprawled comfortably in the middle. They’ve just started eating when Clarisse sets down her plate and just blurts, “what are we doing, anyway?”

 Sandalphon flinches violently, and Cagliostro sighs, setting her half-empty mug down and picking her utensils back up. “We’re making a new primal.” She pauses, taps the tip of her knife against her lower lip, then cuts and spears a bite of her pancakes on her fork. “Essentially.”

 The younger girl gawps unabashedly at her. “We’re... what, really?”

 “I did say _essentially_ , Clarisse. Finish your breakfast, you’re going to need the energy.” She sticks the fork in her mouth and chews the bite slowly for emphasis - of course they’re delicious, she knows her tastes and naturally an expert alchemist is also an expert cook.

 Sandalphon chooses that moment to butt in. “You mentioned picking me apart last night.” His voice is weirdly devoid of inflection, and Cagliostro abruptly realizes she may have chosen a bad phrase - the astrals weren’t known for their kindness to their creations. “How... thorough will you need to be?”

 “Well, I won’t be asking for your complete sexual history, if that worries you.” She keeps her tone dry and slightly sardonic. “Would you rather I asked you the questions directly, or provided a written questionnaire?”

 Sandalphon blinks at her, brow furrowing in confusion. “Questions?”

 “You know more about what it’s like to be a primarch than I do.” She shrugs, takes another bite of her food, washes it down with a sip of coffee. “I also plan to see if I can get Gabriel and the others to corroborate, if that makes you feel better.”

 “Um.”

 “I’ll also need some samples - hair, a few feathers, I’m reasonably sure I’ve seen you bleed so blood also, maybe a nail clipping.” Cagliostro taps her knife against her lower lip again. “I’ll have to set up some diagnostic circles too, scan the lot of you idiots, see what your aether looks like from an alchemical standpoint, Clarisse, I’m going to be counting on you to take notes -”

 “You don’t need to dissect me?”

 And there it is.

 Cagliostro doesn’t have anything against dissection - it’s useful as a tool to learn firsthand what goes on under an organism’s skin; hell, she’s been supervising Clarisse as she deconstructs monster corpses to improve her dissolutive alchemy - but she’s never yet done it to anything that wasn’t already dead. The thought makes her feel oddly unsettled. Certainly, Sandalphon is an annoying little pest, and certainly, she’s willing to kill and has done so before with a laugh - but to tear into his still-living body to see how it works? Even the pursuit of knowledge can’t make her justify that level of blatant cruelty. (Besides, it’d drop her to the same level as those unimaginative Astral hacks.)

 She absently summons Ouroboros, stroking the construct’s warm, scaly neck (flawless as ever now, that nasty business with Nigredo having left no visible scars thanks to her genius) as she shakes her head. “No, coffee boy, you’re going to remain un-dissected, I’m afraid. Unless you want me to, of course, but there’s no real _need_ for it.”

 Sandalphon manages to surprise her this time - because he doesn’t say anything, he simply disappears, leaving his half-eaten breakfast on the bench.

 “What?” Clarisse mumbles a good three seconds later, still round-eyed with confused disbelief. Cagliostro just sighs.

 “Finish your breakfast so we can draft the questionnaire. He’ll be back.”

 

* * *

 

 Sandalphon stumbles to a halt in a grove of trees back on - some island, somewhere inconsequential, he’s sure he can get back to the airship from here but right now he’s breathing too fast and the world is a high thin whistle tearing through his head and -

And he’s weak, but he reaches for a thin trickle of the supreme primarch’s power, manifests the six white wings and wraps himself in them tightly, huddling in a hollow in the roots of some ancient forest giant and pretending, like the weakling he is, that it’s Lucifer holding him. It’s not the same; he can feel the wind in the white pinions that, no matter what, _aren’t_ his even if they’re part of him now, and the feathers don’t carry the scent of coffee and sunshine that they did when they were Lucifer’s, but it’s the best he’s got. The best he’s going to get until he sucks it up, stops panicking - because even worse, there’s no _reason,_ she’s not _going_ to be elbow-deep in his entrails anytime soon and she’s still willing to help, just questions, questions he can do - but here he is, curled into a ball, sobbing like a mortal infant into his borrowed plumage.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not sure how long I'll be able to keep this pace up, but I'm trying.


	3. Drafting

Sandalphon stays like that for - he doesn’t know how long, just that, when he comes out of it, there’s a hand on his right middle wing and a low voice humming soothing nonsense and he wants _so_ _badly_ for it to be Lucifer, as he always has. But he feels the bubble-trickle of her power within him, her gifted wing reacting to her presence, and he knows it’s Gabriel, and - it’s confusing, that she’s here, but he can’t help but be comforted. It’s what she’s best at, healing, and isn’t this just another hurt to patch?

 “I’ll try,” she says, and he realizes he’s running off at the mouth, bites his tongue ‘til he tastes copper to keep it leashed as she continues, “I don’t know how to heal this, but you know I’ll try, don’t you? What happened, Sandalphon?”

 His name sounds wrong in her voice, too sweet and gentle and motherly - fond, but not the right _kind_ of fond - and despite the curtain of white between them he can see the pained little pinch between her brows. “Please talk to me.”

 He can’t. He can’t, but he does his best to be brave anyway, and he lowers the wings on his right, and lets her pull him into her arms. She smells like water lilies and cool mist, and her hair tickles his neck, and she is altogether unlike the one he really wants; but she’s there and holding him and that - that helps.

 

* * *

 

It’s well past lunchtime (Cagliostro knows because Clarisse _won’t shut up about it_ ) by the time they get everything prepared. The questionnaire was quick enough - Clarisse writes neatly and speedily - but then there were diagnostic circles to draw and anchor, and sample containers to scald and label and cork, and extra notebooks to prepare, and since she was reasonably sure of the base of her alchemical procedure they’d started roughly outlining the shape of the primal-to-be’s body on a hastily-prepared stretcher made of dismantled supply crates and spare sail canvas and -

 Well. Cagliostro never does anything work-related by halves, after all, but there’s really not much else they can do without at least one primarch on hand after they finish the blank outline. (Clarisse draws a silly face on it, because she’s a giant child, and Cagliostro lets her, because she feels a little bit petty for having been cut off in the middle of her workflow thanks to Sandalphon’s disappearance.)

 Of course it’s then that Lyria comes running in - trailed, as ever, by Djeeta (Gran and Vyrn are probably wherever the action is already) - all wide-eyed and excited. “Gabriel’s come to visit us!” Claps her hands, eyes bright. “She said you needed her help with something - can I help too? I’d love to try alchemy! You make it look so wonderful, Cagliostro.”

 Djeeta perks up. “I’ve been practicing with the admixtures you showed me!” She pulls out a corked test tube of green potion - Cagliostro feels her lips twitch with a grudgingly fond little smile. “So maybe I can help too, if you want?”

 “We’ll discuss it later, Djeeta, but physical alchemy’s a somewhat different beast than potion-slinging.” Cagliostro sighs, banishes her grease pencil with a little halfhearted clap and slides out of her chair. “Where is she, Lyria? With Sandalphon?”

 The girl in blue beams, nods so vigorously that her curtain of hair flies in front of her face - but even that can’t eclipse her smile. “Ahuh! Up on deck, she sent me down here to bring you out.”

 “Well, that’s helpful, then. Thank you.”

 Djeeta scoots out of the way when she clears her throat, and Cagliostro (and Clarisse, who took a moment to follow) makes her way up to the main deck, where Gabriel and a subdued-looking Sandalphon are sitting side by side on another of the benches, with a stiff-backed Gran standing in front of them and Vyrn hovering around Sandalphon with an expression of belligerent concern.

 When Cagliostro comes into view and Gabriel perks up, Gran’s shoulders lose just a little of their tension and he turns to flash her (and Lyria, Djeeta, and Clarisse) a smile. “Hey, took you long enough!”

 “Don’t make me shrink you,” she responds immediately, fighting back a smile of her own - the twins have that effect on everyone, really - and coming up to stand beside him. “Hello, Gabriel. I see you found our lost chicken.”

 “Don’t call him a chicken!” Vyrn immediately chimes in pugnaciously, little hands balled into tight fists.

 “Sparrow,” Cagliostro amends, shooting the tiny dragon a smug hint of a grin that sets him huffing again, looks at Gabriel with a little tilt to her head, “but - thank you for coming, Gabriel. Has Sandalphon filled you in on why I asked for you?”

 She glances at him, then back at Cagliostro. “Not exactly. I know you needed to take some readings of my aether?”

 “Among other things. Could we also go visit that astral laboratory again? I need to see if there’s anything of use there.” The alchemist shrugs. “I wouldn’t know how to find it on my own.”

 The primarch squints at her, then nods and flows smoothly to her feet, holding out a hand. “We may as well go now, then.”

 “H-hold on!” Lyria launches herself forward, latches onto Gabriel’s forearm and frowns up at her. “Wasn’t that place dangerous? You shouldn’t go alone, we should come too!”

 Sandalphon nods briefly, raises his head to look at Cagliostro. “She’s right. You need more people watching your back - especially if you find something useful,” and his voice goes a trifle muted, a little sad, “it’s harder to protect yourself if you’re trying to preserve something else.”

 The alchemist sighs, turns to Djeeta. “Either you or Gran, then. And Sandalphon. Clarisse, I need you to stay here and prepare some of the document preservation formula in my notes - the hand-sized blue leatherbound volume. Double the recipe just in case.” Glances at Lyria. “I don’t suppose I could convince you to stay behind?”

 “No!” She stamps one foot for emphasis. “Besides, if it’s an astral lab, there might be primals there to guard it - you need me to calm them down!”

 Djeeta and Gran spend a moment consumed in a frantic, tied game of Rock-Paper-Scissors, til Djeeta mimes snipping Gran’s flat hand between her index and middle fingers, turns to Cagliostro with a grin. “I’m coming along, then, so Lyria’s safe.”

 “Woulda been safe with me too,” Gran grumbles, “cheater. Got your sword?”

 She shakes her head. “I’m not sure what we’re gonna be up against, I’m going ranged.” Pats the shapeless brown sheath at her hip. “Got that replica eternal gun, may as well try it out!”

 “Just don’t miss, the last thing anyone needs is another hole.”

 “I’ll tear _you_ one, you dick!”

 Before they can get into it any further, Gabriel reaches out, grasps Djeeta’s shoulder with one hand, Cagliostro’s with the other, Lyria still clinging to her arm -

 And with a whoosh of cool breeze they are, rather abruptly, no longer aboard the airship.


	4. Revising

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> gfdfdghjkl this is the first battle scene I've written in literal years.

Sandalphon feels the heaviness in the air - the remnants of an astral repellent field - as soon as he materializes behind Gabriel. Even the clear blue of the sky seems muted by it, the cotton-tuft clouds imbued with silent menace and he really, _really_ does not want to be here. Hell, judging by the stiff way the primarch ahead of him is standing, she doesn’t either.

 She’s been here before, though - and if Gabriel can shake off the silent command of their long-dead masters, so can he.

 “What are we looking for?”

 Cagliostro glances back at him, tilts her head. “I thought you were just here for protection?”

 “That doesn’t mean we don’t want to help!” Lyria chimes in, peeping over Gabriel’s wing. “Can you tell us what we need to find?”

 The alchemist considers. “Records - which I suppose means papers, for the most part. But don’t touch them if you find them!” Her tone goes stern. “The oils secreted by your skin can do irreparable damage. Lift them with wind aether if you absolutely _must_ move them over to me, and do it very, very gently.”

 Djeeta frowns, snapping and unsnapping the strap holding her gun into its holster. “Maybe we should’ve brought gloves or something?”

 “Only if you don’t feel you can handle a simple aetherial manipulation, Djeeta.” Cagliostro raises her eyebrows. “Didn’t we go over basic elemental magic last week?”

 “I don’t have a focus, though, I only brought my gun.” She scuffs her toe against the ground - Lyria reaches over Gabriel’s wing (the primarch really indulges her far too much) and pats her shoulder.

 “It’s okay, Ji-ji, I’ll do it! You can make sure nothing attacks me while I’m floating stuff.”

 “And calming down any guard primal we run across?” Sandalphon scoffs softly. “Pick a job and stick with it, Lyria.”

 “So you’re volunteering to be on pickup duty then?” Djeeta shoots back, squaring up to him with her hands on her hips - she only _just_ has to look up at him, probably because of the shoes, and Cagliostro has to fake a cough to hide her laugh because _these tiny morons_.

 “We can figure it out once we find something.”

 The alchemist leads the way into the dark maw of the ancient building, and Sandalphon lets his wings fluff and ruffle in a brief shudder before he follows.

 

* * *

 

Lyria doesn’t like the lab at all, but she can’t really put a finger on why. It’s not really a _nice_ place, but it’s not really scary either; just old and broken-down and dim. She’s uncomfortable all the same, and sticks close to Djeeta as they pick their way through the rubble towards the dim gleam of inexplicably-functional magitech.

 Then she stops, feeling a tug in the threads of the thick veil of aether in the air, and her eyes widen as the gem on her chest throbs in warning. “There’s a primal coming-!”

 That’s all she gets out before the floor beneath her buckles and shatters and Sandalphon snatches her and Djeeta both off their feet, a frantic snap of his wings sending them a dozen feet backwards. The thing pursuing them is a blurry mass of contradicting limbs, luridly venom-purple and jerky-quick like a spider and Djeeta’s gun goes off with a shattering _BOOM_ as they whiz past Cagliostro - then Sandalphon’s mismatched wings cloak them and they hit the ground hard, skidding to a halt against a wall. Lyria scrambles up as soon as she can, and she can feel the harsh tang of his pain, but he shoves Djeeta off him all the same and as she stumbles back and he staggers upright, his wings flare and swords shimmer to life in a halo around them. Gabriel is nowhere to be seen, though Lyria can sense her there, too, the soft bubbling coolness of her presence reassuring. The girl draws a deep breath, presses a hand to her gem and within her, she can feel the lesser primals who are at her beck and call stirring too, reminding her she’s not alone, and not helpless either.

 Yggdrasil’s by her side with scarcely a thought - it was her or Tiamat, since this thing is all sickly poison muck, and Tiamat’s draconic aspects are too big to fit into the building - and as Sandalphon lunges, she and Lyria raise their hands in tandem, vines bursting out of the shattered ground beneath the poison-spider-thing, tangling its far-too-many legs and slowing it enough for the primarch to drive a sword into - what _should have been_ into it, but his blade slides off its carapace like water and then one limb rips loose of the vines and slams him to the ground and - Lyria and Yggdrasil cry out in unified alarm as another primal presence wells up _from Sandalphon_ -

 Everything goes white, as the primarch shouts _“Ain Soph Aur!”_ and the other primal echoes, just on the edge of hearing, _paradise lost,_ and when Lyria and Yggdrasil (and Djeeta and Cagliostro and oh, there Gabriel is, a torrent of water smashing what remains of their attacker into the shattered stone pavement) lower their hands from their eyes, Yggdrasil, Sandalphon, and Gabriel are the only primals that remain.

 Yggdrasil squeezes her shoulder, then dissipates, and Lyria presses her palm flat to the gem to feel her energy settling back into place, shaking just a little as she draws off the last of the now-destroyed primal’s life.

 “You okay?” Djeeta murmurs, catching her free hand, and Lyria shuts her eyes and nods.

 “I’m sorry, I should’ve sensed it sooner -”

 “It probably wasn’t active until you did.” Sandalphon sounds a little rough around the edges, but Lyria can sense Gabriel’s watery energy smoothing the last of his hurts from the brief fight, and she relaxes a little at the realization that he’s actually okay, not just faking it. “Anyway, you caught it before it could actually hurt us, though I doubt this place is going to stay standing after we’re done here.”

 “And nothing of value was lost,” Gabriel murmurs - Cagliostro snickers.

 “Nothing at all, once we’re done here - though it’s probably better to stick together in case that wasn’t the only... whatever that excuse for a monster was. Lyria, do you sense any more?”

 The girl shakes her head. “N-no - no, that was the only one, I think.” She swallows hard, processing the last of her impressions of their enemy. “It was - I think it was hurting a lot. I think it always had been.”

 Cagliostro looks oddly pained at that. “Of course those idiots would make something just to hurt it. Why am I surprised? I shouldn’t be surprised.” She snorts, mutters something under her breath, and turns away. “Let’s see if we can find anything useful in this garbage pit before we burn it to the ground.”

 Lyria blinks, and, feeling Colossus stir drowsily at the suggestion of burning, flashes Cagliostro a little smile. “Colossus’ll help.”

 “Colossus’ll have to fight me for first crack at it,” Sandalphon mutters to her, but he’s grinning as he says it.

 Lyria decides she’ll count that as a win.


	5. Pre-production

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> depression is a helluva drug, y'all. See you in another three months. V:

They make it back to the airship by nightfall, burdened with a small box full of fragile documents and a bagful of broken-but-not-destroyed contraptions that Cagliostro dumps in the corner of her workroom “for later” (though she knows that _that_ later is quite awhile away). She shoos Djeeta and Lyria off to get food, Sandalphon and Gabriel for coffee, lets Clarisse poke through the sack of almost-junk while she tests the sprinkle bottle of faintly blue preservative on a scrap sheet (stained with the residues of some long-dead researcher’s meal, a scribble of runes that seem to be a name in the upper left corner, along with a short note) and pronounces it satisfactory.

 She’s still busily floating and coating pages by the time Gran comes in with a plate and all but shoves it in front of her.

 “You missed dinner,” he shrugs when she looks - glares, really - askance at him, nudges the plate ‘til it bumps against her elbow, wafting fragrantly herbal steam into her face, “and Vane wouldn't stop bugging me to make sure you got your share of the Feendrache pot pie, so.”

 She's actually mildly surprised when her stomach grumbles - but then, she'd expended a fair quantity of energy when they burnt the empty husk of the lab to the ground, and Vane's cooking is delicious even when she _isn't_ replenishing and -

 She sighs, pushes away from the worktable, taking the plate with her as she heads for her armchair. Gran watches her with a smile she _knows_ he thinks he's hiding, ducks his head to inspect her work as it settles into neat piles. “Have you found anything interesting yet?”

 She snorts through a mouthful of flaky pastry, shakes her head as she swallows. “I'm still in the preservation phase. I'll actually go through and get to translating once I can be sure I won't destroy my material by sneezing around it.”

 He shoots her one of those bright, earnest little grins he and Djeeta seem to have jointly mastered. “Can I help?”

 Cagliostro rolls her eyes heavensward, gulps down another bite of her dinner, and nods. 

 Gran's tiny whoop of enthusiasm absolutely doesn't make her smile into her pie. Vane’s cooking is just that delicious.

 

* * *

 

Sandalphon puts off going to his cabin for as long as he can. Ordinarily he'd be heading straight there and barricading himself in after a day out with one of the Singularities, but exposure to the sickly aether of the lab and its guardians has left him feeling like ants have made a nest under his skin - and it makes being alone the worst thing he can imagine, even as unsociable as he feels.

 So he stays in the common area, tucked away in the dimmest corner of the galley with his wings hooded like a defensive hawk's, letting the flow of the crew's chatter as they filter up to the deck or out into the dining hall wash over him. Vane, who cooked, is even showing more tact than the archangel would usually ascribe to him and just humming softly to himself as he tidies the cooking space, not even bothering Sandalphon about how he's systematically deconstructing the piece of savory pie on his plate without eating it.

 The primarch finds himself feeling grudgingly grateful to the knight, even as he mindlessly teases gravy-coated peas into a row with his fork.

 At some point, long after Vane’s finished tidying and left with a wave that was calculated to be small enough to ignore - he acknowledged it with a little tilt of his head, because he felt the knight deserved that much - he finally manages to scrape himself off his seat, wings aching with the tension of being arched for so long, and plops his plateful of neatly arranged meat (37 uneven chunks of venison), pastry layers (really just a pile of crumbs; the kind of crust Vane made doesn’t have striations so much as flakes), vegetables (he lost count of the peas, carrot bits, and assorted little green fragments that could be herbs or leafy vegetables) and gravy blobs on the counter by the sink.

 No one is in the halls as he drags himself back to his room - but the dim light of the waning crescent moon through his windows is augmented by the low-burning lamp on his small bedside table, and there’s a neat stack of papers lying next to it, along with one of his coffee cups, a plateful of small round pastries, and a fountain pen he recognizes from Cagliostro’s workbench.

 The coffee is a light roast and slightly cooler than he usually drinks it, but still fresh enough to be pleasant, and he sips it as he scans the papers, slowly digesting the fact that this really is all - there’s not going to be any pain, unless he gives himself a papercut. He can do this.

 The macaron (he recognizes the crisp-soft-crumbly texture as he bites into one) taste of chocolate and roses, and he nibbles at them without looking as he picks up the pen and starts on the questionnaire. The questions are actually ones he can answer, starting with vital statistics (height, weight, age, sex, eye color, hair color), basics of anatomy (which are less than pleasant to think about, given that he knows as much as he does from what he’s overheard over his own screaming, but he gets through it regardless), and finally as much as he can remember about Lucifer himself, starting with _his_ vitals and progressing onward, and that’s where he has to stop, closing his eyes and breathing deep and trying to forget the burning aether of His blood on his hands and the weight of his head and _nothing else_ and -

 At some point he realizes he’s scrabbled into the corner and is curled up _behind_ the mattress and, well, shit. That’s... not answering the questions, and he needs to get this _done_ or it’s going to be hanging over him like a stayed execution. So he reaches over the edge of the mattress for his cup and he drinks the rest in a gulp that tastes of burning copper - no, lukewarm light roast Augusta coffee, fruity and mellow - and sucks in a breath that tastes, he reminds himself, not of blood but the ozone of his own anxious aether, and he drags the papers in under the shelter of his wings, and he writes, each stroke of his pen a blow against his own intangible demons.

 He keeps it up for as long as he can, eyes fixed on the paper and pen denting under his fingers, until he flips a sheet full of carefully sketched wings and realizes he can scarcely see because, apparently, the lamp’s burnt out. He’s got a nearly full bottle of oil in the chamber of the nightstand, and it’d be a moment’s work to refill it -

 But he’s tucked into a corner, safe and concealed with a wall at his back, and he’s gotten so much done - surely he’s earned a little rest.

 His body takes that thought to its logical conclusion almost immediately, and he falls asleep like that, curled up against the side of his mattress with one arm pillowing his head and the other shielding his work, hidden under a full-length blanket of pale plumage.

 

* * *

 

Clarisse is up with the first pre-dawn pink in the sky, and she still doesn’t beat Cagliostro to the lab - granted, her teacher sleeps in there, but she should at least have the decency to still be snoozing at this time of technically-but-it-really-shouldn’t-be morning. Unless, she grudgingly admits to herself, she hasn’t actually _slept_ yet. It’s not terribly rare that Cagliostro should pull an all-nighter; the elder alchemist’s already explained some of the benefits of her transmuted body, and the one Clarisse kind of envies most is the greatly lessened need for sleep. 

 Truthfully, she’s not entirely certain why her ancestor passed up a chance to have the same sort of (ridiculously kickass!) body as her sister, but whatever.

 Her teacher shoos her off with a distracted grumble that she chooses to interpret as “go get the questionnaire” - which is fair enough, considering that Cagliostro was the one to deliver it - and off she trundles. She takes her time, pausing in the kitchen to see if anyone’s made coffee and finding herself a little disappointed when Sandalphon clearly hasn’t, before she heads off down the hallway towards his room.

 Sandalphon, surprising no one, has one of the rooms with the most windows on the entire ship - right at the prow and just a level or so above the keel, so while it’s strangely shaped and kind of narrows down weirdly, it’s also like a piece of the sky with a floor, since the walls are almost all windows. And, as Clarisse discovers immediately, when they’re flying east at this time of morning, it’s an incredible place to watch the sunrise.

 Not that she can see the sun itself, the angle’s all wrong - the rest of the ship’s in the way - but the clouds all around are turning rose-gold pink, and though the room is basically barren it’s all aglow with peach-fuzz fire and - is that a cloud _on_ the bed?

 She sidles into the room, completely ditching propriety in favor of curiosity, and slinks towards the basic twin-sized bed - and nope, no, that’s not a cloud exactly, but the pristine white of the supreme primarch’s wings, glowing like fire in the sunrise as they spill luxuriantly over the narrow mattress, a single hand and a messy spill of papers just peeking out between the sleep-lax flight feathers.

 Careful not to disturb anything, she leans down and gently tugs the papers free - freezing as the hand shifts, but nothing happens beyond a sleepy little rustle of feathers, and she makes her way back out of the room as quietly as she came in, pausing just before she shuts the door to watch as the light swells fiery-gold, then subsides to the more neutral tones of true morning.

 Only then does she shut the door, softly as a mouse, and creeps back down the corridor to the galley. She’s not going to make coffee - far, far too much effort even if she knew where the grouch kept his stash - but she’s pretty sure she can manage tea, and Vane always bakes far too many rolls when it’s his turn to make dinner, and weren’t there some apples in the fruit bowl?

 

* * *

 

Cagliostro is ten pages deep into stack number seven of the twenty or so she’d compiled, with not terribly much to show for it yet, when Clarisse comes back balancing a covered tray, a messy stack of papers clamped tightly to her side by her left elbow. The elder alchemist blinks at her (and maybe she _should_ have slept; she can process what she’s reading fine still, but somehow her student coming back so soon after she’s been shoo’d has thrown her) - then down at the tray as she uncovers it, revealing a plateful of toasted rolls, a little dish of butter, another of apple slices, a teapot, and a couple of cups. “Oh, breakfast?” Is what she finally manages, after another moment, and the young woman has the good sense not to laugh.

 “And Sandalphon’s report!” She beams, and Cagliostro actually grins back, because she hadn’t thought to see if he’d done it yet.

 “What, and he let you get away with _tea_?” The young girl goes a little pink around the edges, and Cagliostro’s grin widens. “Oh, he’s not up yet, is he?”

 “I figured it’d be better to get it now so you can see it before you have to nap?” It’s an awful excuse, and she’s pretty sure Clarisse knows no one’s going to buy it, but she sticks with it anyway. “Besides, I didn’t disturb him, he must’ve been pretty tired.”

 “As your elder, I should scold you for being so rude as to sneak into someone’s private chambers - as your teacher,” Cagliostro takes a dainty sip of her tea, and beams at Clarisse as she sets it aside in favor of the papers, “I don’t think I’ve ever been more proud.”

 The first few pages are just what she expected - vital statistics, saving her having to measure the dumb little sparrow and probably fight him the whole time - then anatomical basics, which she uses to mentally adjust a formula or two -

 And then she turns to the section on their proposed subject, and halfway through the second page it’s very much not a questionnaire anymore. His wings are “the expanse of the dawn sky” and his eyes “noon-bright crystal” and Cagliostro hasn’t seen this much heartfelt poetry in - well, in a very long time, she knows _that_ for certain.

 The poetry and prose soon give way entirely to pictures, remarkably skillful pen-and-ink sketches of graceful hands cradling a cup, tugging down a branch, holding a little round fruit between forefinger and thumb - then a pair of eyes half-shut in clear amusement, then the rough outline of a body graceful as a dancer’s, soft fabric and bright armour and wings, pages and pages of sketches of wings that are both like and unlike those that occasionally adorn Sandalphon’s back, so exhaustively detailed they might as well be schematics - she’s certainly going to use them that way.

 She flips the last page - which had been a stunning study of what she _thinks_ is the left-middle wing - and is met with one final picture, all the parts in one lovingly-rendered whole, folded hands and gentle smile and quizzical brows and an uncertain indication of plumage framing it all, and something knots in her throat.

 It’s probably, mostly, the mild sleep debt catching up with her, but she feels her chest tightening and her cheeks going hot, and Cagliostro sets the papers aside and scoops up her teacup, bending her head over it and stubbornly sipping to distract herself from the sudden urge she feels to weep.


	6. Staging

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> once again, depression is a helluva drug.

Sandalphon comes awake in a warmly glowing cocoon of feathers, and for just a moment, drowsy and soft, he’s back in the garden. It’d only happened once, soon after he’d been created - he and Lucifer had been talking while sitting together on one of the benches and he’d dozed, woken cradled in shining white, to his creator’s gentle voice apologizing for disturbing him - but he still remembers every detail, how the light played over his pinions and his hair and caught in his eyes, the softness of those radiant plumes against his cheek, the scent of flowers in the breeze and sunshine on his wings. And it’s as he wakes fully, murmuring Lucifer’s name with a sleep-heavy tongue, that he finally, finally realizes why the memory - beautiful and precious as it is - feels just that tiniest bit wrong. 

 It’s because it’s only now, having seen the sky with his own eyes for a few years, that he can finally grasp it - in the innocence of his early days, he hadn’t understood the _want_ he’d felt in that moment. He still can’t fully say he does - he’s starting to, though, since there are enough stable, loving pairs aboard ship for him to furtively observe interacting -  even though he can’t actually do anything about it.

 It’s an achingly regretful realization, and it leaves him feeling like the lowest scum in creation, but something about it stirs the embers of hope all the same because, after all, he’s trying to fix it now, isn’t he?

 Well, Cagliostro is, since he asked. She said she was. She _did_ seem interested by the idea, and he’s pretty much finished the questionnaire -

 He gropes blindly for the stack of paperwork, not entirely willing to open his eyes, frowning when it doesn’t immediately come to hand - he’d fallen asleep all but _on_ the thing, hadn’t he? - even squirms partway back onto the mattress to feel around closer to the edges, wincing as he accidentally stabs himself with the discarded pen.

 But it’s not there, and with a groan, he tumbles off the bed onto his feet, wings tucking in close to keep from dragging, and turns a circle, looking for the textual evidence of his shameful inability to _finish_ anything -

 And it’s just... not there.

 He resists the urge to start tearing things apart - there’s scarcely anywhere it could be hiding - and - well, it makes sense that she’d come in to take it back, since she came in to leave it...

 Of course she saw him being pathetic.

 He sighs, tucks the top two of the white wings that are and _aren’t_ his around his face, absently pressing his cheek against the smooth feathers. He didn’t even manifest them _consciously_ this time, and everyone knows he has them - he’s the supreme primarch, half the population of the ship saw him fighting Lucilius _with_ them, they _know!_ \- why does he feel so humiliated by the prospect of Cagliostro seeing him asleep with them out? He’s allowed to fall asleep.

 Just... not snuggled up in the closest thing he has to Lucifer and even _knowing_ he wouldn’t mind - Lucifer was kind, would’ve _offered_ if he knew - it still feels vaguely wrong. Bad enough that Gabriel saw.

 “Ugh.” He grumbles, rakes a hand through his hair, and reaches out between the middle pair of wings (which he’s got bundled around him rather like a blanket) to bring the remains of his late-night snack with him to the kitchen. It’s too early to think about anything but coffee, anyway.

 

* * *

 

Djeeta’s busily chopping up fruit, pretending not to notice Lyria and Vyrn filching pieces straight from the cutting board, when a bundle of feathers that looks vaguely like an Archangel Core comes tottering in. She freezes mid-slice, subtly shifts her grip on the chef’s knife as she tenses to attack - and gets a gentle nudge to the side from Lyria before she can actually turn. “‘S just Sandalphon and -” the girl pauses, glances back, tilts her head quizzically, a slice of peach suspended before her lips, “- and just Sandalphon, I guess.”

 “And?” Djeeta murmurs, sidling a bit to the left as the wing-wrapped primarch dumps a cup and a plate in the sink, makes for his coffee apparatus.

 “It’s like there’s someone else with him. Another primal.” The girl frowns at her piece of fruit for a moment, pops it into her mouth and licks away the juice on her palm with her cheek pooched out like a chipmunk’s before she gulps it down. “I felt it yesterday when we were fighting, too, but it went away.”

 “And you didn’t mention it?” Djeeta glances over at Sandalphon’s turned back, at the six wings that’re curled around him like a shield - or maybe a three-way hug.

 “I thought it might’ve just been the lab, or maybe the thing we were fighting.” Lyria slouches against her shoulder, ignoring Vyrn’s irritated little “hey!” as he’s dislodged.

 “Maybe we should tell him, though?” Djeeta begins - and before she can get any further than that, Vyrn launches into the air and makes a beeline for his head.

 “Hey, Sandals!” The little red dragon dodges the small upper wing that takes a lazy swing at him, flops down in Sandalphon’s tangled bedhead. “Who’s your friend?”

 The supreme primarch makes a noncommittal noise as he dumps the freshly-roasted beans from his tiny roaster into his hand-cranked grinder and begins churning them into delicious-smelling powder. “Not you, lizard,” he grumbles, completely ignoring Vyrn popping him in the top of the head with a tiny fist, “what’re you talking about?”

 “The other primal beast!” He bops Sandalphon again, slides off his head to hover in front of his face. “The one who Lyria said’s with you!”

 Djeeta watches in mute horror as the supreme primarch goes stiff, the wood around the crank’s handle splintering loudly as he completely forgets his strength.

 “The _what_?”

 Lyria winces, pushes off Djeeta’s shoulder and goes timidly over. “The - I didn’t know if you knew, I felt it yesterday? There - you have something. Someone? Someone with you.” She hesitantly reaches out, snakes a hand between his wings to touch his shoulder. “Are you okay?”

 Sandalphon swallows hard. “I. I don’t know.” The handle of the grinder crackles piteously as he continues working the beans through it - Djeeta makes a note to get Eugen to whittle a new wooden piece for it, no sense letting their grouchy coffee gremlin get splinters - shoulders hunching, wings tucked tight. “What did this - person, feel like?”

 Lyria takes a half-step back, then closes her eyes and holds her hands out in front of her, gem shining softly as she tugs gently at the sensation, the single thread of gold in the rainbow that’s Sandalphon’s aether signature, and gasps as she feels it sleepily, weakly tug back.

 “Lyria?” His tone is sharp, but not angry - mostly worried, she thinks. “Are you alright?”

 She nods, eyes wide, and stretches out just a single hand this time, reaching delicately along that aberrant strand, follows it all the way down into Sandalphon’s core where it weaves into the radiant chorus that is - she begins to suspect - not _just_ him.

 “Sandalphon,” she murmurs softly, “do you remember when we met? Right at the end, when you said Gran’s fingers were delicate.”

 She can feel him wince, and his energy signature roils in discomfiture - but that one tiny thread remains unwaveringly serene. “Why are you bringing that up right now -”

 “When Lucifer told you to take solace in his core.”

 Silence descends as heavy as lead, but Djeeta, wonderful Djeeta, catches her meaning practically instantly, and there’s wonder shining in her eyes as she breathes, “Lyria, are you saying -”

 “I think so!” She lets go of her magic, clasps her hands tight to her chest. “Sandalphon, I think -”

 “Don’t,” he whispers hoarsely, and she can see the look of barely caged panic on his face as he cranks the grinder empty, keeps grinding air because he’s gone on autopilot, “don’t say it, don’t _say_ it - what if you’re wrong and I’ve already ruined it _again_ , Lyria, _don’t._ ”

 A beat passes, and she makes a tiny noise of excitement. “That’s why, isn’t it? That’s why you went to the astral lab, you knew?”

 He shakes his head, drops his hand to the counter, all those wings coming up to hide him again. “I don’t - I don’t know.” His voice goes whispery, weak. “I don’t know.”

 Djeeta carefully puts her knife down. “Vyrn, c’mon.”

 The tiny dragon looks up at her from his perch atop Sandalphon, mouth and eyes both round with shock, and she shakes her head, makes a tiny beckoning motion. “Just c’mon. We gotta find the honey in the storeroom, I forgot to bring it out.”

 Vyrn, bless his soul, manages to take the hint - launches off the shocked primarch’s head as lightly as he can, pausing to gently undo a tangle in his hair before he flies off after Djeeta.

 And they nearly run straight into Gran as they leave the galley.

 

* * *

 

Cagliostro is dozing in her chair, a journal draped over her face to keep out the light, when her door bangs open and a human whirlwind comes ripping through, sending her papers flying with the wind of their passage and shocking her wide awake, dumping the journal straight into her lap with a heavy, painful _thunk_.

 Gran and Djeeta are both in their alchemist student uniforms - something she’d put together in a flight of fancy when they asked to learn - slightly scruffier than usual, and looking outrageously indignant. “Why didn’t you tell us?” The boy demands, stamping one shiny-shod foot against the deck. “Dammit, and I didn’t get to come along -”

 “- Gran, we found _everything_ that was there -”

 “But what if you _missed_ something?”

 “If I missed it, you sure wouldn’t have found it -”

 Cagliostro squints blearily at them. “What?”

 It’s a little bit eerie, how they both snap to look at her, brows furrowed in near-identical looks of outrage. “Why didn’t you tell us you’re bringing Lucifer back? We want to help!”

 The master alchemist holds up her hands, completely thrown by the way they’ve come at her - she’s used to their antics, sure, but not both at once and not hyper-focused as they are. “I take it Sandalphon let the cat out of the bag?”

 “Lyria found out!” Djeeta blurts, and she’s fidgeting with excitement, the potion vials at her belt jingling together as she all but dances in place. “She said she felt another primal yesterday and then Vyrn asked Sandalphon and he didn’t know and she did her sensing thing and she _said_ it was and -”

 “Breathe, Djeeta,” Cagliostro puts in, but she feels her own heart rate kick up in response to the twins’ sheer _energy_. “You said Lyria sensed him? Is she sure?”

 “I’m pretty sure she’d call it a hunch, but you _know_ how Lyria’s hunches are!”

 “Uncannily accurate?” The alchemist sets her journal aside, slides from her chair. “Where are they?”

 “I left them in the main galley,” Djeeta replies, turns towards the door, turns back indecisively, “do we need to bring anything?”

 “Just yourselves, we’ll come back here to work on the formulas a little more.” She takes a handful of inked sheets from their workbench drawer as she passes, falls into step between the twins - changes her mind less than twenty steps from her workroom. “Gran, would you go get Clarisse for me? Tell her to meet us in the galley, we’re probably going to set up our little scanning station there. And see if Gabriel’s still around - if she is, ask her to come as well. Any of our resident primals, actually - the more, the merrier, I want to see how different they actually are, magically speaking.”

 He’s off like a shot, and she grins, glances over at Djeeta. “Today’s lesson is going to be scanning circles, in case you hadn’t guessed. Any thoughts on the matter?”

 The girl beams. “I have absolutely no idea how these things work, so I’m gonna save my questions until I’ve at least seen them being used once _._ ”

 Cagliostro nods in approval, smiling to herself. “Good answer.”


	7. Incremental Improvements

Sandalphon can barely breathe.

 It’s too much - she’s just confirmed his deepest wish and his greatest fear all at once because _Lucifer’s not gone_ but also _Lucifer’s with him_ (somehow) and he’s going to screw this up, he always does, he’s going to lose him again but this time forever and -

 “Sandalphon,” Lyria’s voice is gentle but frightened, “you - you look like you’re going to fall, let me help you, give me your hand -”

 He flinches from her touch but goes with it, unwilling to hurt her, afraid of being hurt himself even though a (tiny, fear-gagged) part of him knows she would never, but all she does is settle him in a chair, busy herself using the beans he’s ground to prepare the coffee he’s forgotten. Time skips away from him as she works and he startles hard when she delicately sets a mug in front of him, sits beside him with worry in her eyes. “Please drink it, I - I know you like coffee and I think I remembered how you do it?”

Orders. Orders he can do, orders he can obey - so he takes up the mug, tips a scorching mouthful over his tongue - and it’s _awful_ , worse than the first cup Lucifer’d ever made him, sludgy and acrid and _bitter_ -

 “O-oh - oh no, don’t cry, I’m sorry, was it that bad?” Lyria’s hand wavers at the edge of his vision, and he all but drops the mug to drag her into a probably-too-hard-but-hell-if-he-knows hug.

 And she hugs back, frail though she is, her embrace tight and determined.

 “It’s perfect,” he finally manages to rasp, drops his chin on her shoulder with a tiny little sigh. “T-thank you, Lyria.”

 “You’re welcome, Sandalphon,” she murmurs, gives him another little squeeze, “any time.”

 He flashes her a little smile, then reaches for the cup and downs the rest of the bilious black stuff in one long swallow - no sense wasting coffee, no matter how awful - spends a moment just staring at the thick sludge of grounds caking the poor vessel. “I - Lyria, I don’t know what to do with any of this. I only asked Cagliostro because I wondered if it’s even _possible_ to make a vessel for a primarch -”

 “Which it is, you know! You asked _me_ for it, so of course it is.”

 Sandalphon falls straight off his chair with how hard he jerks around, hits the ground with a grunt but before he can so much as twitch, Djeeta’s there, offering her hand. He blinks owlishly, then takes it - she looks a tiny bit concerned. “Hey, Sandalphon, your fingers are -”

 “- say delicate and you’re going _straight_ out the window, Singularity.” He blurts, and she raises her eyebrows as she hefts him to his feet, steadies him as he stumbles.

 “I was gonna say shaking, but okay.” Djeeta keeps a hand on his elbow, lowers her voice. “We’re gonna do this, okay? Gran and I have your back a hundred percent. Each, I mean. So, uh, two hundred percent.”

 It’s maybe the worst possible time to bring it up, but he does it anyway. “I hurled your brother off an island.”

 “Yeah, like two years ago, so?” She shrugs. “Sandalphon, this may come as a surprise to you, but even then we figured out you were trying to get Lucifer’s attention and - I mean, if getting people to come back was as easy as that for us, you bet your archangel ass one of us woulda gotten yeeted _years_ ago.”

 “But I tried to _kill_ him.” He chokes on the words but he can’t keep them back, too much at stake now to leave _anything_ unspoken because _what if_.

 “Breathe. You’ve saved _both_ of us and the _entire sky_ something like, what, six times over now?” Slips her hands between the frantic curl of his wings to cup his face, bump her forehead against his like he’s seen her do with her brother dozens of times, golden eyes taking up nearly his entire field of vision. “That debt’s long since repaid as far as we’re concerned. So stop trying to push us away - we’re your friends, okay? We’re gonna help.”

 “But-”

 “Stop.” She puts her entire hand over his mouth, staring him dead in the eyes. “Let’s try this then. Say we _did_ hate you, wanted to ruin everything you touch, whatever you can’t stop worrying about because I guess you think you deserve it?” Bumps her head against his again, a little harder. “Guess what? Even if _you_ did deserve it, _Lucifer_ doesn’t. Even if we hated you, wanted you dead, would do anything to hurt you - which we _don’t_ and we _wouldn’t_ but _even if_ \- this is for him too, so it’s safe.”

 “On top of that,” Cagliostro chimes in, softly, from behind Djeeta, “even if _that’s_ a lie, though I firmly believe that it isn’t, do you really think I’d let anyone tamper with _my_ work? There are layers of failsafes here, coffee boy.”

 And Sandalphon, despite every instinct he has shrieking _it’s a trap, it’s a trick_ , nods - because he doesn’t want to risk hurting his friend by removing her hand from his mouth with the lack of control he’s feeling right now. And, even as untrusting as he is - there’s no lie in anything they’re saying. Even if he didn’t trust them - and he does -

 “Am I interrupting?”

 And that train of thought promptly goes straight to hell because _that bastard_ had to show up _now_ and all Sandalphon’s wings instantly go up in pure outrage and - Djeeta rolls her eyes and pokes her head right between the top and middle one, hand still firmly clamped over his mouth.

 “Lucio, are you actively _trying_ to be an ass, or is your timing just naturally terrible?”

 The female half of the Singularity is, for that moment, his favorite person in the skies, because he can hear Lucio sputtering faintly behind him as he circles - well, wherever he’s going it’s not closer to Sandalphon, and that’s all he cares about right now. Cagliostro makes a mild sound of amusement as she heads off after _him_ , and the supreme primarch spends a moment gritting his teeth and flexing his wings irritably before he can bring himself to fold them up properly.

 “Hold it - no, this - _hold it the way I’m giving it to you_.” The alchemist’s tone of irritation, oddly enough, serves to calm him a little further; more proof he’s not the _only_ one who finds Lucio obnoxious.

 “So, like -”

 “ _Good enough._ ”

 There’s an audible _zap!_ And the smell of singed feathers and when he looks, Lucio’s tiny wings are visibly steaming - smoking? - as a slip of paper falls from his slack fingers directly into Cagliostro’s hands. She flaps it lightly in the air, squints at it, nods contentedly and makes a shooing motion. “Good enough, get out.”

The face-stealing bastard, in a move that’s utterly unlike him in that it’s _exactly_ what he’s been asked to do, does just that, brushing past an amused-looking Clarisse and a clearly-confused Gran on the way through the doors.

 “He held it upside-down, didn’t he?” She chirps as soon as she’s in the room, and Cagliostro snorts.

 “Despite my best efforts, yes.” She sets the paper gently on a table, anchors it down with an empty water glass. “Coffee boy, if you’re up for it, I should scan you too.”

 Sandalphon, supreme primarch, should be utterly unruffled by the idea, should just glide over all graceful and calm, ready for whatever comes next. What he actually does is pull gently back from Djeeta’s hand, still over his mouth this whole time, and ask, “will it hurt?”

 Cagliostro shakes her head. “Not if you follow basic instructions. Come here, I’ll show you.”

 He does, feeling strangely encouraged by the way Djeeta, Gran and Lyria all follow him the dozen steps across the room to where Cagliostro and Clarisse have settled in at a table. He’s pointed towards a chair, told to sit, and then Cagliostro picks up one of the sheets of paper stacked to her right. “This is an alchemical diagnostic circle.” She hands it to him. “It’s inert until I activate it, don’t worry - hold it with this side up -” indicates a strange sort of pointy bit, “- aimed at your chin, with your index finger and thumb in these circles on each side.”

 The supreme primarch blinks at her, then at the page, positions his hands and for a moment the air goes hazy and bright -

 “And done!” Cagliostro beams at the room behind him as she takes the page back out of his hands. “You got the positioning right first try, so I set it off - but, see? Simple enough.”

 “Now we just need the samples!” 

 Clarisse holds up a wire rack of glass tubes, each stopped with a tiny cork, each with a tiny label. “Just, uh, fill ‘em with what’s on the tag.” A hesitant pause. “You, um. They shouldn’t need to be filled all the way, though, maybe halfway? Not too much, don’t make yourself sick. We could do it for you but -”

 “I thought you might be more comfortable not dealing with a clinical setting for all this.” Cagliostro puts in at his slightly mystified expression. “You innately regenerate quickly, so we don’t have to worry about you getting an infection taking the samples yourself - just be certain to only pop each cork once, just for long enough to put the sample in, and then reseal it immediately.”

 “And you’re... trusting me with this?” He sounds just a tiny bit lost as he stares down at the rack of vials in his hands. “Not to screw it up?”

 “You wouldn’t.” Cagliostro shrugs. “This is important to you, and I’ve seen how careful you are with things that’re important to you.” Flaps her hands gently. “Shoo now, I’ve got other primals to harass. Shoo.”

 And Sandalphon does, sliding out of the chair and walking out in a daze, wings hanging low, nearly plowing Noa and Rackam straight over as he goes.

 

* * *

 

Cagliostro spends the rest of the morning busy collecting data. Every primal beast associated with the Grandcypher seems to have turned out - not just Gabriel and the other ex-primarchs, but Noa having dragged himself out of wherever he hides (with Rackam, as always, at his side), Rosetta just as curious as any of them though she keeps it neatly buried under her lighthearted sophisticate’s facade, Lyria’s primal companions manifesting in their pocket-sized forms to take the tests together, Zooey and Grimnir and Shiva and on and on and -

 In the end, she has enough raw information just from the quick scans that even looking on it uncollated makes something in her roll over and purr in delight. This is knowledge she _definitely_ didn’t have before and it’s _all_ hers to make something _beautiful_ with and -

 “Yeah, just leave her to it,” Clarisse says from far away, “she’s as bad as Lunalu sometimes. I’ll show you how the circles work? We’ll be using a modified version to analyze the samples...”

 Later, Cagliostro will have it in her to be annoyed at the comparison - she’s not getting _nosebleeds_ over _learning_ , dammit! - but at the moment she’s too busy digging her claws into the Astrals’ design and ripping it wide open to care.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> don't ask me why this went the way it did, I'm not driving this boat, I'm just writing all this shit down :V


	8. Shearing

It’s strange, being allowed - expected! - to handle laboratory glassware. A great deal of it had been involved in his earlier life, but he’d never _handled_ it before, and it feels both queerly powerful and extremely wrong.

The sample vials are all tiny, of course, barely the size of his pinky finger, each one labelled in an even, precise hand nothing like either the printed labels of most astrals, or the lazy scrawl of Lucilius’ personal projects. Even more unlike, the labels have his _name_ on them, not just a serial number.

Strange.

Also somewhat disgusting, since the samples that he's going to be giving are basically all bodily fluids, but at least they're being collected on his own terms. And there’s a certain poetic symmetry to the first three vials being for blood, sweat, and tears. Less poetic, of course, are the earwax, body hair (distinct, he notes, from the second “hair” container which is, presumably, only for _head_ hair), feathers, spit and nail clippings, but if alchemy is anything like astral science, it’s all necessary.

Anyway, it’s for Lucifer. That’s all the reason he needs to do it.

He rearranges the vials in order of process of collection, from least to most involved, pulls out his sword, and sets to work.

* * *

_In the dimness of his early days, he did not grasp nuance. The Creator did not pick up on this, as for the most part he was absorbed in other things, but what he recalls is this: a bright flare of pain upon the accidental shattering of glass, and a brighter flare of joy at being told, “make your replacement.”_

_Replacement, noun, a person or thing that takes the place of another._

_It follows that to fill his position, this being must be his equal, and the joy burns brighter yet._

_Somehow, his error has earned him a precious, precious gift._

* * *

 Lyria blinks down at the stained coffee cup in her hand, and dips it back into the basin, rubbing futilely at the oily black clinging to the pale porcelain. She does not question this fragment of a dream, no matter how vibrant.

The golden thread that’s ever-so-lightly tethered to her yet - it seems attracted by her magic, somehow - pulses softly, then subsides.

* * *

  
Cagliostro doesn't look up from her fresh journal (burgundy with wings engraved on the cover in gold; a little flight of fancy all her own) when the sample rack clinks down on her worktable. “Clarisse!”

“I got this one!” Comes Gran’s voice, bright and cheerful - and then a startled, “whoa shit, you okay?”

She glances up and, behind her workbench, Sandalphon looks like a complete wreck - eyes puffy from both bruising and, she presumes, weeping, an uneven chunk taken out of his bangs, a smear of blood still drying on his sweat-dewed forehead.

“Coffee boy, what did I say about not making yourself sick?” Cagliostro sighs, sets the journal aside, hops to her feet. “Sit down.”

She pulls a rivulet of clean water from the air into one of her empty flasks, fishes a fresh handkerchief from a drawer, and sets about cleaning him up.

(Gabriel, peeking from around the corner with her own vials - hers and the other ex-tetra-primarchs’ - resolves to scold him later for not letting her help with that; she is, after all, a nurse.)

* * *

Sandalphon is terrible at waiting.

Not that he hasn’t had experience in doing so - for a long time, such a very, very long time, it was all he really _did_ \- but now inaction rankles at him like a burr under his breastplate and he can’t _stand_ it. 

They shooed him away from the workroom after the first time he offered to help - Lyria was kind about it, reminded him that Gran and Djeeta had been studying nearly since Cagliostro joined the crew and even they only got to essentially daub fluids onto paper, and anyway, his presence might influence the results, and -

He tunes her out, not meaning to be cruel, but unable to be kind when he feels like there’s a hook buried in his core, dragging him in circles. He never thought this would get further than a ‘no, get out’ - and then, he thought, he’d _have_ to acknowledge his weakness and pick up the pieces and accept that Lucifer is dead, gone, _because of him_ \- and instead he’s gotten...

Honestly, he’s gotten the kind of hope so pure and sweet that it _has_ to be poison, but after ages of bitter survival, he’ll gladly accept this ambrosial death.

“Sandalphon?” Lyria’s hand on his arm doesn’t startle him nearly so badly this time, and he manages to offer her a pinched little smile for her inquiry.

“I get it. I’ll... leave.”

“Not too far though!” She waves her hands frantically. “After all, they - they do need you! Just - not for this part. They don’t need me either.” Her hands work into the hem of her dress, and he sighs, gently cups her elbow and guides her along with him.

“I’ll teach you how to properly brew coffee, then, and we can be unneeded together. Right?”

She smiles up into his face, eyes bright. “Right!”

* * *

_He understands, now, that it’s not intended to be taken literally when he’s told to make his own replacement - but he does it anyway, adds a bit more to his creation’s blueprint every time he’s told to._

_Inevitably, the time comes that he’s actually done._

_In a tiny act of rebellion, perhaps his first, he’s made his replacement as unlike him as he can - realizes, when he’s finally finished and bearing the plans to fabrication, that he’s inadvertently made a clone of Belial, and pauses in an unoccupied office to quickly jot adjustments. The hair and eyes stay - two of the first things he’d decided on, and he’s grown entirely too fond of them to change that - but the build shrinks a bit, the wings taking on the mottled plumage of a sparrowhawk where before they’d been plain, dusky brown, the face growing a bit more heart-shaped and soft._

* * *

“Oh.”

Sandalphon blinks at her from where he’s standing by the roaster, filling a canister with the finished, unground coffee from his earlier batch, a jar full of sandy-gold unroasted beans waiting their turn nearby. “Lyria?”

“I... think I may have done something wrong.” She sits down heavily, frowning at her hands.

“What? Should I get the singularities? Is something coming?” Sandalphon clicks over, kneels in front of her, his (and only his) soft, brown wings rustling anxiously as he peers up into her downturned face.  
  
“No - not that kind of - Sandalphon, you -” and impulsively she grabs his hand and _yanks_ -

And Sandalphon is - abruptly, impossibly, and for a fraction of an instant - back in their garden.

He gets only the briefest glimpse of a puddle of dawn-kissed feathers and blood-red coffee fruits, limp in the grass, before he’s back in his body and everything in him is _thrumming_ with anxious heat and he snatches her hands in his, eyes wide and frantic. “Lyria what did - what did you _do,_ do it again, _do it again_ -”

“I can’t - I can’t right _now_ , Sandalphon, don’t look at me like that - it’s - Sandalphon!”

He lets out a little cry of frustration. “ _What?_ ”

“He’s trying to wake up, I think.” And he sees his anxiety mirrored in her own eyes. “He’s trying to wake up but -”

“- but he has nowhere to wake up _to_.” He swallows hard. “What does that mean?”

“I don’t know.” Her voice is a breathy whisper, and her hands come up to drum her fingers on her gem impulsively. “I don’t know but I - I think that means we have a time limit.”

And Sandalphon, so far into panic that everything’s turning into a grey mist, sits down on the floor and laughs, helpless and incredulous.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> what's that? actual conflict? in my self-indulgent bullshit? it's more likely than you think, apparently


	9. Dreamworks

_ There is a brand of flame in his throat, and he has no words, no breath, but panic thrums through him - danger is here, darkness and poison - he has to protect - _

_ “Shh, shh, no.” _

_ The voice is strange, not one he knows, and yet - and yet it’s familiar as Lucilius’. Not identical - not at all, not even close, too much warmth to be his cold, distracted maker’s - and yet so very much the same, like a reflection in distorted glass. _

_ Unable to move, he can only stare into the crimson-tinting sky and hope - hope that - _

_ Hope that... what? _

_ “Knowing you, probably something involving Sandalphon.” The voice’s tone is teasing, but not cruel. “The reverse is certainly true.” _

* * *

“What is it, Lyria?” Djeeta’s there, suddenly, and she wasn’t when they started, and she’s... sitting on the floor? Coffee spills off the counter to dribble into a puddle, steaming drops plinking an asymmetrical tune against the surface and Lyria’s having a really hard time concentrating for the sudden cello-chord hum of the cord clinging to her magic. “You have to talk to me.”

“Lucifer.” Lyria squints through the steam of a thousand thousand cups of coffee, past red eyes to gold, careful not to crush the tiny red fruit in her hands. “I think I...”

“Lyria!” Djeeta’s voice is sharp with concern as Lyria lists to one side, eyes glued to the imposing shadow over her shoulder. “Gran, where’s Phoebe? Morphe?”

“I’ll check Raduga -” a voice that should be familiar but really isn’t cries, and stiff-shod feet clatter away at a run.

* * *

_ Let’s try to make this a little less terrifying, hmm? _

_ He feels the impression of a hand, cool on his forehead, like he’d seen a skydweller mother do for her sick child. The red in the sky pulses and writhes, but ebbs back, by little and little. _

_ Perhaps you’ve not the strength, right now. But that’s alright. _

_ You’re not alone. _

* * *

“Lyria,” Sandalphon’s voice twists a little but remains firm, “hang in there.”

His voice takes on a note of breathless, tearful pleading after her name, and for a moment she’s entirely bodiless, helpless, senses all but gone -

A hand that smells of chamomile and mint cups her face, and the smell startles her into brief clarity as she looks up at the twin primal beasts of dreams, whose heads are bent together over hers. 

“Oh, Lyria,” Phoebe sighs and squeezes her shoulders, “only you’d wind up tangled up in someone else’s dreams.”

“Waking dreams,” Morphe puts in, patting her cheek lightly, “the worst kind to get trapped in.”

“Because waking the dreamer the usual ways doesn’t work.” Phoebe interjects.

Morphe nods. “Because they’re not asleep.”

“But not awake enough to not be dreamers.”

Lyria squints at them. “Lucifer,” she manages, her tongue thick and heavy, “has a lot of dreams.”

“I can see that!” Phoebe covers Morphe’s hands (still on Lyria’s cheeks) with her own from above. “You should sleep.”

“So we can help you, maybe.”

“Maybe?” Djeeta puts in, and the girl looks, frankly, terrified. “What do you mean maybe, this is - it’s what you  _ do _ !”

They sigh in unison. “Djeeta,” Morphe starts, and Phoebe finishes, “we didn’t  _ make _ these dreams, though.”

“We can’t influence them from outside.”

“We need an in.”

Lyria squints again, stretches herself around the thread (now thick as a tree trunk) to lightly pluck at the pale-blue dreamstuff of the twins’ power. “Am I an in?”

“You could be!” Phoebe peers down at her from above, nose brushing her forehead. “And then we can make this stable.”

“As stable as this kind of dream can be.” Morphe shrugs. “I think. We’ve never seen anything just like this before, have we?”

“No, not even before you, brother.” Phoebe sighs, presses her forehead lightly to Lyria’s. “This is all new. But it should work?”

“Will,” and everyone’s attention snaps to Sandalphon, who looks absolutely wrecked, “will this - hurt either of them?”

“No?” The twins exchange a look, a joint shrug. “Shouldn’t.”   
“Probably not.”   
“If it does, we did something wrong.”

“We don’t, usually.”

“It’s a possibility, though.” 

Sandalphon grimaces. “Would having another primal beast’s power involved help or hurt?”

The twins stare him down, glance at each other, then back at him. “It’s Lucifer, isn’t it?”

“The dreamer,” Morphe adds, “who Lyria’s tangled up with.”

“Yes.” The primarch sighs, settles on the floor next to Lyria, who pats his knee lightly.

“Then yes! Yes it would!”

“If it’s you, it’d help.” Phoebe clarifies gently, gives her brother a tiny shove in the shoulder. “Since you and he are connected.”

“Can I help?” Djeeta chimes in, and her voice is soft and sweet, and her hand is tangled with Lyria’s, and Sandalphon feels something in him knot up in an emotion he parses as uncomfortably close to guilt.

“Not with this,” Phoebe puts in, very softly, leans around the blue-haired girl to pat the captain’s cheek, “but you can help Master Cagliostro, can’t you? The sooner the dreamer has somewhere to wake, the sooner we can wake everyone.”

“Everyone?” Djeeta sounds absolutely lost, and Gran, behind her, has an expression like he can’t quite get enough air, like he’s been punched in the gut.

“Lyria and Sandalphon and Lucifer, all three.” Morphe reaches across to squeeze Djeeta’s shoulder.

She looks from Lyria to Sandalphon to her brother and back, and the primarch sighs but meets her eyes levelly. “You know what I’m going to say, right?”

The captain laughs a watery little laugh. “I’m doing this, singularity, and don’t you try to stop me?”

Sandalphon grins at both her and her brother, and it’s maybe just a little watery too. “And that goes double for you, impulsivity boy.” 

“Name’s still Gran.”

“I’m still not using it.”

“Dick.”

Morphe clears his throat. “We ought to get to bed now.”

* * *

_ “Come on, come on, time’s wasting!” _

_ Like this, in a world that feels real except for the clouds of luminous blue that smell of chamomile, Morphe and Phoebe blur together as they move, leading the Supreme Primarch (who feels less supreme and more subdued, really) across acres of minutiae ‘til they reach the Door. _

_ Sandalphon doesn’t need to ask who he’ll find behind it. The closer he gets, the more the air smells like sunshine (ashes, blood) and coffee (fire, poison), and the soft light beaming beneath the door reaches for him like fingers that’re no longer there. _

_ He pauses at the last moment. “Is Lyria -” _

_ “Already there.” Morphe-and-Phoebe blend together gently. “We’ll keep the dream stable, but that’s as much as we can do. All the rest is up to the three of you.” _

_ “...No hints?” _

_ “None we can give. The rules all break whenever they want to.” Phoebe-or-Morphe shrugs. “We’ll send you messages.” _

_ Sandalphon nods - and opens the door. _

* * *

Cagliostro is wrist-deep in a goopy mass of aetherial construct when Djeeta comes slamming in, tear-streaked and devastated, followed by her eerily-subdued brother.

“What happened?” The master alchemist frowns, fishing around to place a conductive node just-so, anchor it in the gloop with a whisper of power before she withdraws her hands (leaving all the goo  _ inside _ where it _ belongs _ ) and going over to the captains.

“Lyria and Sandalphon got stuck in Lucifer’s dream.” Gran finally musters the energy to say, and Cagliostro feels something in the back of her head go  _ snap _ .

“What?”

“Lyria did something to wake Lucifer just enough that he’s dreaming, and she can’t get unstuck from it so she’s dreaming too, and Sandalphon went in with her because Morphe and Phoebe said he could help.” The male half of the captaincy shrugs helplessly at the alchemist’s second, incredulously-mouthed  _ what _ , sits down on the arm of the chair his sister’s melted into, lets her flop against his side. “How long d’ya think making a new body’s going to take?”

Cagliostro grimaces and turns back to the puddle of not-yet, considering the possibilities. “I’m not sure. I can’t  _ rush _ this, you know; if I do it won’t even have a chance of working. Theoretically I’ll have a first draft in a day or so but it’s literally anyone’s guess if it’ll hold together properly, and the core’s not grown yet. It took all  _ day  _ to condense the light aether enough to make a seed crystal, I don’t know how big it needs to be, I don’t know how much energy or what kind is needed to activate it - I don’t know how to make this body look like it’s supposed to, I don’t know how the wings work, exactly - you could say I’m, heh, flying blind.” She rubs her chin. “...Maybe two or three more days, if I’m less careful than I’d like to be. Maybe faster, if I figure out a more efficient way than doing the aether channels by hand, but for something that can support the same levels of energy as the others - the numbers, Gran, the numbers are  _ absurd _ \- it seems the only way at present...” She waves her hands distractedly, already losing herself in the process of alchemy, and Djeeta just groans, arms coming up to wrap around her brother.

“I’ve been up less than nine hours and I already want to go back to bed.”

Gran sighs, tapping lightly on Djeeta’s austere black headband. “Same, Dee. Same.” 

* * *

_ Sandalphon makes it five steps into Lucifer’s dream world (endless grass and endless sky) before everything goes from the strange-but-reassuring dream-haze _ to puzzling, eerily-wakeful clarity, grass sharply ending in a stone walkway he recognizes from - from the garden.

Overhead, the sky crackles red, though it quickly settles into storm-whipped grey.

The Supreme Primarch - no, just Sandalphon here, two wings and no more - flings himself into the air and hurtles towards where he wishes he didn’t know Lucifer was.

When he clatters down in the hallway between the Cradle and That Room, though, it’s not at all like he expected.

There’s no tang of blood, no trail of tattered feathers - in fact, he can hear Lyria chattering away, soft and sweet and happy as a lark.

He keeps his sword out as he goes, all the same.

* * *

_ The world’s faded from the death of the skies into the last room he ever saw alive when, suddenly,  _ everything snaps into clearer focus. Lyria, who has apparently become trapped in his dream with him (and has already waved off his barely-there apologies, telling him to save his energy), sits up a little more straight, and waves, beaming. “Here we are!”

Lucifer lifts his head - and there in the doorway, framed by silvery storm-light, wings half-flared and sword in hand, the very picture of an avenging (defending, whispers a traitorous inner voice) angel, is -

 

“Sandalphon.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IT'S HAPPENING


	10. Construction

Sandalphon freezes for a small eternity, there in the doorway, unable to look away from Lucifer as he sprawls across the steps, clearly weak and with a _nasty_ scar on his throat but whole and _smiling._

When he hears his name, the sword falls from his hand with a clatter, and he all but teleports (maybe actually does, dream logic giving him what he wants as quickly as possible) to drop all ungainly to his knees on the steps and drag Lucifer into a long, long overdue embrace. Lyria's delighted little gasp doesn’t go entirely unnoticed, but it just doesn't register as important when Lucifer is there and awake and whole, after Sandalphon'd all but resigned himself to a life wholly bereft of him.

Lucifer sighs into his shoulder, a tiny breathless thing, while Sandalphon buries his face in his hair and just barely strangles a completely broken noise, torn between terror and still-ragged grief and the slow-building joy that’s choking him like a creeping vine.

“Sandalphon,” the ex-supreme primarch breathes again, and Sandalphon tightens his grip, “I’m sorry.”

It’s honestly all he can do not to break down at that, but he manages. “Later. I accept but - later.”

Lucifer shifts as though to sit up, and Lyria frowns, reaches across to almost-touch but realizes Sandalphon might actually _bite_ her and subsides back to sitting hastily. “You should save your energy, like I said! This is just - just a temporary thing ‘til Cagliostro can finish, and it’s not hurting us, I promise. It’s my fault you’re awake this early, too.” Fiddles with her dress’ hem. “Do - do you feel okay?”

Sandalphon snorts. “Don’t answer that, liar, I can already see you trying to say ‘fine.’” He lowers his voice and his wings both, their plumage watercolor-soft as they fold around the precious being in his arms. “You’re not, and - that’s to be expected. But you will be.”

Lucifer’s laugh is a whispery thing. “Alright,” he murmurs, lets Sandalphon fuss over him, “but if it becomes too troublesome -”

“I don’t think it could.” Lyria chimes in, still fidgeting, flinches at the horrified look Sandalphon shoots her over Lucifer’s bowed head. “I mean, now that we know we _can_ help we all want to! Cagliostro is making a new body for you and everyone's doing everything they can to help and - and everything. Everyone wants you to come back.”

“Not to be anything, and not to do anything, either,” Sandalphon adds, so soft that Lyria can just barely hear him, “but to live.”

Lucifer goes quiet at that, then makes a soft, hoarse little noise, and between Sandalphon's enveloping wings Lyria can't quite see his face, but the link she's inadvertently made between them thrums with the same sweetly-aching sorrow she felt the first time Katalina smuggled her out to see the sky. And so she ducks under one of Sandalphon's wings, and she gets one arm around each supreme primarch, old and new, and she squeezes tight.

Sandalphon can't bring himself to move his arms from around Lucifer (this time, _this time_ he'll be good enough, he won't be too late, not now or ever again) but he leans a little into the embrace just the same.

* * *

Cagliostro spends the rest of that day and all of the next slowly coaxing aether out of the air and into the potentiality goop she’s painstakingly concocted, with the help of the ship’s primals. She’s sticking fairly close to Sandalphon’s proportions of light to other elements, but aiming for somewhere between Michael and Raphael’s quantities for the physical areas, and she can only be grateful that the boy’s light element and not dark because staying up into the wee hours to siphon off sufficient quantities of black magic after being a conduit for everything else is _not_ what she would call a good time _at all_. As it is, the small quantities of dark aether present in the regular daytime shadows are perfectly sufficient to be drawn in as an umbral anchor for a being whose balance tends towards the astral.

When this is all over, she’s pretty sure she’s going to sleep for a week straight. Maybe make Sandalphon be her slave - well, maybe towards the end of the week; give the dumb little sparrow some time with his -

Come to think, she’s not sure _what_ Lucifer is to him, and so she resolves to find out when this’s all over.

When it’s over.

She’s reasonably sure it’s not going to be easy; her instincts are screaming that there’s something she’s missing, but what, she can’t quite say. Still, she’s on-track to be finished with the body tomorrow morning, she thinks - the last node’s been placed and she’s had enough success networking them in groups rather than one-by-one that she’s reasonably sure the channels won’t take much longer, then it’s just a matter of filling the corners in with aether and figuring out what to do to make a primal’s core an actual _core_ and not just a shiny rock. Simple enough for her.

* * *

Sandalphon feels like he’s scarcely gotten comfortable, Lucifer and Lyria both drowsing under his wings, when the tiny ball of cotton-wool hits him in the face and unravels into a message.

_How to make core says Caggie?_

The primarch cringes gently, careful not to disturb either of the others, shakes his head and murmurs, “I don’t know.”

Another ball catches in his hair, tugs loose. _“Figure out y/n?”_

“I imagine she needs to - oh. Oh, no.” He bristles a little. “I can’t, I - I’m _here_ , I need to be _here._ ”

 _“Can’t dream forever.”_ The next one points out, and he frowns, because - well, true, but...

“I still don’t know how, though.” He murmurs, “so why bother asking me?”

There’s a moment’s silence, and then a wad of fluff slips past him to bounce off Lucifer’s nose - and Sandalphon snarls, but can’t stop it asking him, _“how to make core?”_

Lucifer blinks slowly - and then there it is, the dawning recognition that says he _knows_ and Sandalphon sighs. “We don’t know how to - to make a core properly, I’m sorry. Do you?”

As it turns out, Lucifer does.

* * *

Sandalphon comes awake in a snarling fury, rushes to Cagliostro’s workroom with all haste - and freezes as soon as he gets in the door because _there is a body on that table_. A whole - if nude, mostly-featureless, and clearly not alive - body. 

That was _not_ there when he went to sleep.

How long has he been asleep?

“Over here, coffee boy.”

Cagliostro sounds - and looks - tired. Incongruously, confusingly tired, but the small golden crystal cradled in her lap is pulsing slowly and already nearly half the size of Sandalphon’s core itself, and his throat goes dry with a sort of awe at this strange, brilliant skydweller woman who, in a matter of _days_ , has literally all but completely built a primal beast with her own two hands. The astrals themselves couldn’t have done better.

He doesn’t say that, though - instead, he goes to his knees in front of her, gently gathering the crystal into his own arms, and murmurs, half to her and half to it, “I’ll take it from here.”

Cagliostro sighs, and doesn’t even try to argue. “In which case, I’m going to _sleep_. I just spent the past two days cramming aether into that -” she waves vaguely at the body, “- and I’m thinking the rest’ll keep ‘til morning. Remember, now, coffee boy - you _owe_ me.”

Sandalphon doesn’t even look up from the half-finished core as he rises. “It’s worth it.” He murmurs, and she absentmindedly pats him on the shoulder as she slides from her chair and trundles towards her bed.

She’s asleep almost before he shuts the door behind him, and it’s left to Ouroboros to turn off the lamps, which the construct manages admirably for something without hands.

* * *

Sandalphon doesn’t dare run with the precious burden in his arms - oh, he _knows_ it’s probably durable enough to bounce a couple of times, even half-complete it’s a stable formation of mana, but still - so he keeps his pace to the quickest walk he can manage. His mind is a screaming storm of excitement and fear - and so it takes Djeeta practically tackling him to get his attention, and he very nearly backhands her before he realizes she’s not a threat.

“ _What?_ ” He snaps, instantly regrets it when he realizes she looks just as bad as Cagliostro had. She’s in rumpled pajamas, but the bags under her eyes don’t agree with the suggestion she’s slept, and when she flops into his side, he frees an arm from the core to catch her. “Djeeta, what is it?”

“How’s Lyria?” She mumbles against his flank, and he sighs, tousling her hair lightly.

“Fine. She’s fine; she and Lucifer were getting along very well.”

“How’re _you_?” She squints up at him sidelong. “You used my name.”

“Don’t get used to it.” He grumbles down at her, looks back to the slowly-building core that’s started to pulse in time with his own. “I’m... distracted. As happy as it makes me, Lucifer’s - I don’t know _how_ he’s here; he gave up his wings, his core was stolen, and yet.”

She flashes him a tired smile, slips her arms fully around his middle and squeezes. “Does it matter? He’s there and he’s gonna be here.” Yawns into her bicep. “Gonna... gonna have to throw a party. Auguste? Get him some sun.”

“You’re ridiculous,” he murmurs, ruffles her hair lightly, “utterly ridiculous, singularity.”

“Yeah, well, so’re you, grumpy.” She mumbles back, gives him one more squeeze, then lets go. “‘M gonna get back to Lyria. Tell her I’m right beside her?”

He flashes her a tiny, but sincere, little smile. “Why do I need to? Since when are you ever not?”

“Sandalphon.”

“I didn’t say I wouldn’t.” He gives her shoulder a nudge. “Go on. Try to actually sleep, hm? I’ll tell Lyria what you said.”

Her answering smile is, for all its weariness, perfectly radiant. “Thanks, Sandalphon.”

“You’re welcome, singula -” he pauses, considers, amends, “- Djeeta.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this came out even softer than I intended it to be, huh.


	11. Test Run

Lyria comes back to awareness of the dreamworld slowly, almost like a real awakening. Nothing much has changed, save for the steps feeling downy-soft rather than like the hard stone they’d actually been, and Lucifer is still drowsing, Sandalphon watching him with soft, sleepy eyes.

And then a tiny dream-message ball pops against each primarch’s face, and Lyria finds herself inadvertently privy to a private, reluctant farewell between Sandalphon and Lucifer, which - sure, Lucifer needs a new core and Sandalphon is the best choice to make it, but it’s _still_ sad to see how hurt the grumpy primarch looks as he fades. Lucifer manages to _look_ less torn, but she can feel him trembling finely - and she gives up feigning sleep to hug him again. “It’s okay - this means we’ll see him in the real world again soon, right?”

“If it should work, yes.” Lucifer, for all his outward serenity, still sounds somewhere between heartbroken and terrified. “If it doesn’t -”

“It will!” Lyria huffs, straightening up. “We all did a _lot_ to make it work - we went to this old Astral laboratory and found a lot of instructions, and Cagliostro - she’s _so brilliant_ , she invented alchemy! - she’s the one Sandalphon asked to help rebuild you, and she’s made her own body so many times I _know_ she’ll be able to make yours.” She clenches her fists against her knees, _wills_ him to believe her, and he smiles a tired, sad little smile.

“I’m glad Sandalphon is with you.” His voice is soft. “He deserves to have friends who stand by his side and mean it as you do.”

“Well - well, yeah!” Lyria hesitates, reaches out and lays her hand on his shoulder. “And - so do you, I know you do. Sandalphon wouldn’t -” and she chokes on a secret that’s _not_ hers to tell, one she’s pretty sure she’s not meant to know, “- wouldn’t have come to us for help if you didn’t.”

“Tell me about your crew, then?”

Lyria lights up. “It’s going to take awhile, there’s a whole lot of us, but - okay! Do you want to hear about all the primals who’ve decided to come with us first or later?”

* * *

Sandalphon makes his way back to bed quickly enough once Djeeta’s let him go, settles in with the core cradled to his chest, and lets his mind slide to Lucifer’s instructions. _Tell it who it’s meant to be_ , he’d said, _and the rest will follow._

And so he curls close around it, letting the Supreme Primarch’s wings manifest and wrap it and him in a feathery cocoon, greedily hoarding its nascent glow, and he whispers his own magic into it - wisps of brilliance that tell of cups of coffee and stolen glances, of sky-blue eyes and sunrise wings and the certain way his hair was tousled after flying. Of aimless conversation and gentle fondness and the light that came with him into a room, of a soul so terribly, wonderfully brilliant and giving that he’d laid his life down without a second thought.

Finally, as the crystal, coming into its fullness, pulses and shines and casts kaleidoscope shadows across his face, he tells it of that shy, secret smile that he adores, and hopes to see again soon. And, as he feels the world waver with the drain on his magic, he seals it with a quiet affirmation of a love he’s held across millennia of life, and lifetimes of torment - and when it ripples against his chest, he knows that, for good or for ill, it’s done.

* * *

The body’s exactly where he left it in Cagliostro’s workroom, and Ouroboros looks askance at him when he comes stumbling in with the core in his arms - but Sandalphon is done and past done waiting, and so he goes to the table and he presses the core into the body (feels it go in with a sickly sort of _squelch_ ), and watches as the aetherial touchpoints all through the vessel catch the morning-sunlight glow of its new power source from within. He’s tired, so tired, but he steadies himself against the table and he watches as the body begins to shift, by little and little - the shoulders broadening just a trifle, a soft swansdown of white hair and eyebrows slowly sprouting over long-lashed eyes that he _knows_ will open flawlessly sky-blue, and he bows his head in gratitude and relief that - that he _didn’t_ screw this up, that Lucifer’s _right there_ , all he has to do is _reach_ -

His hand barely touches the fluff atop Lucifer’s head before blue-chamomile clouds engulf him, and he’s dreaming before his body hits the floor.

“- and she got readings from _everyone_ and - and Sandalphon worked _so hard_ , it’s going to work, I know it!” Lyria chatters away excitedly and Lucifer nods, smiling that fond little half-smile, and everything is, for a single split second, absolutely perfect.

“And we all know,” a new voice purrs, “that the harder you work for the climax, the better it is.”

And suddenly, the dream’s become a nightmare.

Lucifer already looks better, more lively - he actually scrambles to his feet when he hears the intruder - but he’s swaying and _not_ fit to fight and Belial -

Belial. Belial has _his sword._ Belial has _his sword_ that _he dropped_ **_and he’s turning it on Lucifer_**.

Sandalphon doesn’t even think, just hurls himself at _that fucker_ with all his might, slams into his middle and knocks him sprawling and twists all the way around to kick back off his smug bastard face and plant himself like a tree in his way to Lucifer. “Shouldn't you be sucking cocks in hell?” He spits, hands flexing into fists as he digs his heels into the grass.

“Ooh, Sandy, you know exactly what gets me going.” The primarch purrs as he flows (like a rivulet of filth) straight back to his feet, rolling his shoulders. “Lucy, hope you don't mind if I have your little bird first, he just _won't_ take no for an answer...”

“I advise -” Lucifer's voice is hoarse and breathless but still calm, “- that you accept defeat and leave now, Belial.”

Sandalphon chances a glance back at Lucifer and oh, he looks _grim_ , even with Lyria clinging to his shoulders like a monkey.

“Lucy, d'ya really think I'd go to all this trouble working my way inside you just to leave without even getting to come?” Belial snorts. “No, I'm taking all of you.”

“Try it.” Sandalphon snarls. “Fucking try it and see where it gets you.”

“I like the way you think, Sandy.” The primarch of cunning purrs - and then he lunges, and Sandalphon, weary though he is, leaps to meet him.

* * *

 Cagliostro wakes to her creation glowing like a newborn star, and Sandalphon a limp heap on the floor beside it, Ouroboros curled beneath his head like a living pillow. She pats the construct, then checks on the body - notes the physical changes with interest, then yanks the blanket off her bed and tucks it over him, figuring that this Lucifer would prefer to preserve some of his modesty.

But then she touches Sandalphon and - something is _wrong._

* * *

It’s a split second’s falter that does it. Sandalphon’s already taken a hit or two, though he’s given as good as he got and Belial is bleeding just as freely as he is and he’s pretty sure he can win this -

And the primarch smirks, and spins - and Sandalphon realizes his mistake as Belial hurls a spear of crackling darkness at Lucifer. He doesn’t think twice - this time he really _does_ teleport and it’s the height of foolishness but he _can’t_ let it end like this and the blade sears his core with cold fire as he stumbles and falls and doesn’t hit the ground, tears gathering at the corners of his eyes because this, _this_ isn’t how the dream ends.

His vision burning fuchsia, he raises his head to look Lucifer in the face, takes hold of all he can reach of the lingering power of the supreme primarch, and whispers, “wake up,” before he bundles it all together, and _shoves_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let's climax together, hmm?


	12. Programmed Obsolescence

Lucifer comes awake all at once, instincts honed by years of endless war and their attendant paranoia sending him rolling off the table just in time to avoid the blade that would’ve taken him in the throat, slipping on the thin woolen blanket he was evidently covered in before he can gather it hastily around himself. He knows without looking that it’s Belial; even if he hadn’t just barely avoided this fate in his dreams ( _ Sandalphon, _ his mind whispers,  _ oh, Sandalphon _ ), the acidic violet malice in the air is clue enough.

He’s still not prepared when he looks up to see Belial’s eyes in Sandalphon’s face, Belial’s will causing Sandalphon’s hand to wrench free his sword from the table and lunge again, Belial’s cruel laugh a sickly overlay over Sandalphon’s voice. “Hold still, Lucy, you’re not supposed to be up yet - lemme  _ put you back to bed. _ ” Even freshly-awakened from a yearlong death, Lucifer can brush the Anagenesis off - Belial  _ knows _ this - but then -

Then he notices the boy in the doorway, expression glazing over as he slowly draws his own sword, and realizes he was never who the attack was for to begin with. The boy’s the male half of the singularity, worse luck, and Lucifer stumbles a little as he puts a few steps more between them, angling so the table’s acting as a barrier as he knots his blanket into a makeshift skirt. He knows his situation’s not terribly good - he’s off-balance, he can’t bring himself to view them as enemy combatants, he’s unarmed, and there’s only so much space to dodge in.

On the other hand, he knows better than anyone what the body Belial’s stolen is and isn’t capable of, and the Singularity - Gran - is more likely than any other mortal he can think of (save his own sister) to be able to shake Belial’s suggestion. He just -

He just needs time. 

The traitor primarch, meanwhile, hunches his shoulders a little as he forces Sandalphon’s wings out, somehow makes the process look terribly painful as the archangel’s lovely plumage bristles like claws. “Didn’t you hear me?  _ Put him _ -”

A massive, crimson serpent with swords stabbed through it slams nosefirst into Belial and knocks him sprawling, and a tiny (shorter than Sandalphon, at the least) blonde mortal appears from behind the table, long hair scruffy and her entire posture  _ radiating _ fury, the one ear and section of jaw Lucifer can see past the hair bright red against the white of her ruffled nightgown. “I heard. Get out.”

Belial’s eyes narrow as he pushes off the floor. “Cagliostro, I presume.”

“You presume correctly.  _ Get. Out. _ ”

A torrent of purple washes around Sandalphon’s body, Belial’s strength gathering - and Lucifer has just time to dive over the table and tumble awkwardly to the side, the small woman in his arms, before the floor where she’d stood erupts into a smoking crater - come up and tumble again to avoid the doublehanded strike from Gran before he sets her down. Nausea is supposed to be as foreign to a primal beast (if he still is one) as death, but his vision swims all the same, dark spots dancing with the crackles of violet lightning in the air.

“You’re pretty significantly more functional that I expected you'd be this soon,” Cagliostro mutters, looking him up and down, nods briefly, “good thing, I guess, though I would've liked to examine you first - you're also up a lot faster than I anticipated.”

“Sandalphon, he woke me,” he begins, hoarsely - shakes his head and glances over at Belial, “he woke me, and -”

“I presume that thing did something inappropriate.” Her tone softens. “Possession?”

He nods, all his words caught in his throat.

“Well then.” She pushes him back and  _ behind her _ \- as though she can protect him, as though she means to try. “I'll just have to burn the poison out, then.”

* * *

_ He opens his eyes to shrieking darkness, and something inside him breaks - he recognizes this place. He spent two millennia here. _

_ Pandemonium. _

* * *

Djeeta wakes from an uneasy doze with Lyria’s hands on her shoulders, nearly gets a mouthful of hair as she mumbles a hazy, “huh?”

“You - you have to get up!” The tearful hitch to her voice snaps the singularity to wakefulness with the abruptness of ice water. “Lucifer is - and Sandalphon - Belial got him and -”

She rolls out of bed, grabbing a weapon from the stack by the bed, the first that comes to hand - one of her swords, the one from Luminiera - and reaches for Lyria. “Where are they?”

Lyria, still clumsy from her long nap, nevertheless launches herself off the bed like she’s got springs attached, clinging to Djeeta’s shoulders with strength born of fear. “C-Cagliostro’s lab, they’d have to be!”

Djeeta hitches Lyria a little higher up on her back and toes the door open, voice soft and grim. “Hang on tight.”

* * *

Cagliostro is not used to being on the back foot. It’s happened, to be sure - that nonsense with Albedo and Nigredo and whatnot, for one thing, the fight with Beelzebozo (close enough to his name, she thinks) for another - and yet somehow this time rankles the worst. Perhaps it’s because she’s forced to impede  _ herself _ lest she hurt Gran or Sandalphon, perhaps it’s because  _ this fucker _ is damaging her workspace, perhaps it’s just because the area’s too cramped for Ouroboros to bring his full might to bear, and so she’s forced to overcompensate with the dissolutive alchemy that’s really Clarisse’s strength and not (despite her genius) hers. Whatever it is, she’s blown past blazingly furious and is rapidly heating up towards incandescent. 

Behind her, Lucifer is doing - she’s not sure what he’s doing, probably his best to not throw up; she can’t imagine doing the acrobatics he managed immediately upon reconstituting a body even if she didn’t do it all herself. Souls take a little while to properly acquaint themselves with their flesh, after all, and this is an entirely new form to him, even if she’s reasonably sure it’s analogous to his old one.

Her mental estimation of the primarch quietly ticks a little closer to “impressed” as a wave of healing light flows over her and, renewed, she waves away another one of Belial’s energy bursts (wincing as it shatters a collection of flasks, sending cascades of her premixed preservation solutions all over the floor), ducks a clumsy swing of Gran’s sword and slips on a puddle and throws a hand up, fully prepared to recreate it after it’s carved off by the backswing -

And a sunshine-bright blade catches Gran’s blow and shoves it back - Djeeta’s pale-blue striped pajamas suddenly taking up her entire field of vision as she squares up in a two-handed style, yells at her twin, “Gran,  _ snap the hell out of it! _ ”

He replies with another swing of his sword, but Djeeta catches the edge with her own blade, surges into the bind with all her slight weight, hooks his ankle with her bare foot and sends him tumbling, his own weapon skittering from his hand as he sprawls.

Belial, across the room, flashes a lascivious smirk that looks  _ terrible _ on Sandalphon’s face. “Isn’t  _ that _ a pretty picture? Twins just about to impale each other right in front of me. Mmm.” 

“You shut up!” Djeeta turns on him with a snarl, and he hops back from the golden-edged shockwave she flings his way. 

Cagliostro flicks Ouroboros after it, irritated but unsurprised when the snake gets swatted away with little effort - suddenly realizes that the disgusting bastard’s sidling towards the window and takes a step to stop him -

“Well, things’re just too crowded for little old me now, so -” he blasts the entire wall out with a cheerful, “ta!” and bounds out into the fog as the winds start dragging people and objects out after him, as Gran springs back to his feet and very nearly impales  _ himself _ on Djeeta’s sword when he tackles her.

Cagliostro gets a wall of force up in time to stop most of the room being lost - but not before Lucifer’s been swept out (intentionally, she thinks) after Belial, and she can only hope he knows what he’s doing because she  _ certainly _ didn’t see any wings.

* * *

_ Sometimes, when he’s too tired to fight but the beasts find him, he lets them have their way. The claws hurt, but he always heals. He always, always heals. _

* * *

The air is cold and fresh, this high up, and Lucifer closes his eyes and spreads his arms and lets the wind buoy him for a moment before he reaches for his wings - remembers with a split second’s panic that he’d passed them on -

But then they manifest and he forgets entirely what he was ever worried about in the face of the chase ahead of him. The escapee primarch is still just visible in the thick clouds, Lucifer knows he’s built for speed, but not for Belial’s beat-the-air-into-submission brand of flight; and with access to  _ only _ Sandalphon’s wings (he can feel the desperate grabs the primarch of cunning is making at a power that denies itself to him) he’s not going to be able to outrun Lucifer and his -

He glances back over his shoulder and nearly goes into a tailspin at the result of his quick count.

Lucifer and his own  _ twelve _ wings, apparently.

He’s never flown with so many, but every breath in this sky is familiar to him, and so he gains quickly, swooping and fluttering to catch every tailwind, every tiny updraft that can be leveraged into a short speedy stoop. Belial-in-Sandalphon doesn’t have the raw power to outrun him and this entire time he  _ knows _ this is too easy, far too easy, but he’s always had a blind spot where Sandalphon is concerned. And after all, haven’t they  _ earned _ a little bit of easy, after thousands of years of failing and imprisonment and death?

He drops into one last stoop - and slams bodily into Belial, three pairs of wings and his arms all wrapping the smaller body against his own, pinning them tight together.

“Y’know, Lucy,” and Belial even sounds a little breathless, “I never thought you’d be this straightforward.”

“Belial,” and his voice is hoarse and so, so tired, “please. It’s over. Let it be over.”

* * *

_ Let it be over. _

* * *

“All you had to do was ask, Lucy.” Belial’s voice is uncharacteristically soft - and then he plants a palm against Sandalphon’s chest, and the clouds around them erupt in violet fire.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _apparently the road to fluff is paved with hell_


	13. Slipping Gears

_He’s never been here in the flesh, but the sheer screaming dread he feels tells him all he needs to know. This is Pandemonium._

_This is where Belial has sent them._

* * *

It’s Gabriel who finds them, hovering stationary a few thousand yards from the Grandcypher’s position - Sandalphon clutched to Lucifer’s chest, practically incandescent with healing magic, both apparently alive, both entirely unresponsive - and it takes the combined efforts of all four ex-tetra-primarchs to get them towed aboard and more or less tethered to the foremast like a feathery balloon. Cagliostro takes one look at them and goes directly back to her workroom, deciding that she needs to focus on one problem (namely, fixing her walls so she can _sleep_ ) at a time; the primarchs aren’t actively dying and she’s really just too damn tired for this nonsense.

She leaves Ouroboros to guard them regardless.

* * *

_Porcelain-blue light bleeds through the shattered stone-and-flesh walls as Lucifer pushes onward, bare feet scraping raw on the jagged stone pavement. He has no sword, no armor, no idea where he’s going, nothing except the bone-deep urge to find Sandalphon, and the equally visceral fear that he won’t. Not that he’s a stranger to failure, but this is - more, somehow. More immediate, more raw, more... more that in the space of less than a day, Sandalphon’s saved him twice and Lucifer, in return, has already failed him each of those times. The failure isn’t new, but the contrast is, and it makes his weakness weigh on him far more; moreover, his successor obviously has striven so terribly, terribly hard just to bring him back (even though he scarcely deserves it; had hoped that implying he was beyond all aid might permit Sandalphon to move on and live freely), and yet, here they are. If he could only -_

_A desperate, and desperately familiar, scream completely scatters his thoughts, and he bursts into a run with a wordless, answering cry, chasing the echoes with, to borrow a skydweller expression, his “heart in his throat.”_

_Two failures behind, he refuses to fail his solace a third time - whatever may lie between them._

* * *

Morphe looks up from his cup of chamomile tea when Phoebe slumps against the table with a whine. “Still nothing?”

“It’s like dreaming at a wall,” she mumbles, steals the cup from his hands and takes a sip, then makes a face and reaches for the sugar. “Your turn?”

“Or we could rest a little while and then try together?” He shrugs helplessly. 

Phoebe fixes him with a glare that could strip paint. “We _promised_ we’d hold it stable, Morphe - and we _didn’t_ and we have to fix it _now_ -”

“It’s hardly your fault.”

Lucio settles himself, cup of hot chocolate in hand, at the other side of their round table, tiny wings fluttering softly as he sets the mug down to gaze into it, an oracle seeking an augury. “I hadn’t realized how much more powerful than the two of you a primarch, even an imprisoned primarch, would be when dreamwalking. It was a miscalculation on my part.” Takes a steady sip, sets the mug back down. “For what my word is worth, I _am_ very sorry; I underestimated him and I should have been there to support you.”

Phoebe looks up from her tea. “Can you be there to support us _now_ , at least?”

Like the sun coming out, he beams, tiny wings wiggling. “Oh, you couldn’t stop me from doing so if you _wanted_ to.”

* * *

 _The reek of blood is thick in the air around him, and he can almost, almost not smell it - the onset of oblivion swaddling him close and tight and maybe, maybe he can finally_ **_rest_ ** _-_

 _But instead of claws and quiet darkness, there’s a blaze of golden light, suddenly, so bright that even through his eyelids his failing eyes can’t miss it, and then something’s touching him, not clawing or biting or rending, just touching, and the air hitches in his throat as the hand, it’s a_ **_hand_** _, comes to rest on his cheek._

_“Sandalphon, please.”_

_It’s a struggle to open his eyes, but there’s no way he couldn’t after that because he’d know that voice if he_ **_were_ ** _dead, if he were broken and deaf and blind, if he had been cut to pieces and scattered to the four winds. Lucifer glows like a star against the putrid darkness of this hellhole, and Sandalphon, far from the glee thousands of years of torment told him he’d feel at the (former?) Supreme Primarch being brought low, only feels sick at the realization that his guiding light is here and - worse - has seen him giving up. And then feels both infinitely worse and marginally better at the attendant realization that this simply_ **_can’t_ ** _be real; Lucifer wouldn’t be here, much less - much less unarmed and unarmored, much less_ **_cradling him in his lap_** _, what new hell -_

 _For an instant, Lucifer looms larger in his pain-dimmed vision, and then a gentle pressure on his forehead brings a sweep of healing warmth over him, and he squeezes his eyes shut to keep back the tears, because of course,_ **_of course_ ** _his torment would weaponize his completely_ **_idiotic_ ** _desire to be - to be cared for, by Him. Of course his traitor brain would choose, on the edge of brief, blissful death, to make him hallucinate being saved when his regeneration kicked in. This probably isn’t even the first time, but he’s also pretty sure death comes with some kind of death-adjacent amnesia attached, so chances are he probably just hasn’t remembered before -_

_“Sandalphon,” and the voice is soft, gentle, so familiar it aches, “please look at me.”_

_Sandalphon, who has never been able to deny that voice, does._

_Lucifer, now that he’s looking, looks... tired. Tired, and worried, and - soft, for lack of a better word, his expression is soft with emotions Sandalphon can’t dare to name as their eyes meet. “There you are.” A gentle pressure against his no-longer-shredded chest keeps him from rising as he tenses to try. “Rest. It’s safe for now.”_

_“This is... this is a dream, isn’t it?” Sandalphon murmurs, tongue heavy in his mouth, and Lucifer sighs._

_“This -” he indicates the horror that encompasses them with a broad gesture, “is.” Lowers his voice. “I am not.”_

_Sandalphon, unable to help it, turns his face aside and laughs, brief and broken and ugly. “You have it backwards.”_

_“No.” Lucifer cups his cheek gently, turns his head so they’re looking at each other again, a myriad of sunrise wings drooping to blot out the darkness, enfolding them in a chrysalis of light. “I don’t.”_

* * *

Lucio - Helel - Lucio tosses his names back and forth, decides that, since he’s going to get Lucifer (and Sandalphon, the grouchy little thing), he’ll stick with being Lucio, and settles against the foremast, glancing sidelong at the primal beasts of dreams who bookend him, resting a hand on the head of the crimson snake supporting him in his coils. “Now, don’t be too shy about drawing on me - I can take more than you’d think.” Beams at them, his tiny manifested wings sweeping gales across the deck. “Just - use your judgement, hmm? If we come upon - that is, if I have to fight, let me.”

“Shouldn’t we just pull you back out with the others?” Phoebe offers, tentatively, and he shakes his head with a sad little sigh.

“That’d just put off the problem, you know. It has to be -” he hesitates, a smidge of Helel’s internal turmoil bubbling to the surface, flattening his tone out as he shrugs, “- it has to be dealt with.”

As little as he wants to, as badly as it hurt the first time around, to deal with his own failings - well. He can, and he must, push through - Speaker or no, master or no, Lucio has a strong sense of responsibility, and this falls squarely on his shoulders. 

He’ll fix it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and so we saunter towards what I think may be the actual _end_ , god willing and the creek don't rise


	14. Cutting Wheels

_Helel, as the Speaker, embodies a vague, lukewarm kind of fondness for all things, pleasant and unpleasant. Everything, after all, has its role in the Creator’s world; even Pandemonium has its place, holding all the things that are not so nice away from those they could harm. It is unpleasant, but were he to be asked he would say it is necessary._

_Lucio, on the other hand - now that he’s letting himself have opinions - has decided less than thirty seconds in that he hates Pandemonium, everything it stands for, and the flimsy reasons anyone may’ve had for putting_ **_anything_ ** _in here. Especially anything_ **_intelligent_ ** _, like the ‘traitor’ angels - what kind of monstrous -_

_He lets himself realize he hates the astrals a little too, but he cuts himself off before he can go further. Hatred may provide impetus, but he doesn’t need to be propelled down that particular road right now; right now, he’s here to restore, not destroy. And so he reaches down into his core, and touches his own memories of creation, bittersweet though they are._

_Even Helel, well-meaning and nigh-omniscient though he was, fell into a trap with his own creature; when he sang Lucilius into being he had ulterior motives. Wishing for the happiness of one’s creation is not wrong, he thought - he still thinks - but trying to force him to be so at all times was... like taking away an entire swathe of colors from his emotional palette. Unfair, to take the choice away from him. And Lucilius, he thinks, knew it before he_ **_knew_ ** _it; his innate rancor a natural reaction to Helel’s attempts to keep him contented via benevolent control._

 _Of course, then Lucilius had crafted Lucifer and proceeded to make his creator’s mistakes his own, forcing his own desires, his own hopes, onto his creation and just making him quietly, serenely miserable until_ **_he_ ** _was given permission (however flimsy) to create._

_But Sandalphon is - different. Where Helel created out of a desire to have a being who could be happy and share that experience with him, and Lucilius wanted to perfect himself with no thought of what his creation might be outside of what he wished, Lucifer simply wanted an equal, whoever he might turn out to be. And where Helel steamrolled over anything but happiness and Lucilius didn’t care either way, Lucifer did his best to give the new angel experiences that would cause him joy without forcing it._

_Lucifer, of the three of them, is the only one who actually got creation_ **_right._ ** _Sandalphon wants what he wants because_ **_he_ ** _wants it, not because his creator built it into him or manipulated him into it, and that - makes Lucio feel terrible, truthfully, seeing the proof of just how badly he erred. So he lets himself think, instead, of helping Sandalphon and his creator, and follows the hopeful ache in his chest into the dark._

* * *

“You’ve _got_ to be kidding me.” Djeeta hisses, looking from the serenely sleeping face of Lucio up to Lucifer-and-Sandalphon (still floating idly at the end of their tether), and back as she aggressively readjusts her headband. “You - you sent _him_ in? You know we need Sandalphon to _want_ to come back, right?”

“He’s our best shot, though!” Phoebe protests. “He’s strong, and he does care, and -”

“And Sandalphon _hates_ him!” 

“Yeah, but that’s because he has the same face as _him!_ ” She waves at Lucifer. “Maybe it’ll make him less mad with the original there too?”

The captain buries her face in her hands and makes a quietly frustrated noise. “I - ugh. I gotta get back downstairs. I’m counting on you to handle this.”

“I mean, you don’t have much of a choice?” Phoebe pats her shoulder. “It’s already done. But it’ll be okay, I promise.”

“I can only hope you’re right.” Djeeta murmurs, shoulders slumped. “Let me know if anything changes, alright? Anything at all. I’ll be with Gran.”

Morphe pats her other shoulder consolingly. “The moment it does, promise.”

* * *

_Lucifer is unused to fear._

_He’s experienced it, to be sure, but he isn’t_ **_prepared_ ** _for it, and that’s just another failing - because sitting here with Sandalphon (who is not dying, who is safe and_ **_healed_ ** _both here and in the real world, this is only a dream) he’s so mired in it that he can’t think, can’t figure a way out. Obviously pain doesn’t wake them - how did he only scream once? He was being torn to shreds! - and he dislikes the idea of causing Sandalphon pain anyway, but what else is there? All his thoughts are empty grey mist and bloodspray. (his feathers are going to be stained again, with both their blood mingled though he knows he healed them, he knows it, knows the way a dying angel’s breath catches and knows he caught it in time, his own healing magic burning bright before the riptide yanked him away)_

_The sad bundle of feathers (his wings are a mess, but Lucifer knows he’s long since given up the right to touch them) in his lap stirs a little, and he lets himself fold his own wings - the middle pair of so many, how does he handle all of these? Six was enough - a little closer, the sunset glow of their power bringing out the deep russet veins in his plumage, the matching red in his hair. Sandalphon is obviously exhausted, between whatever he did to re-compose Lucifer and now this, and that’s dangerous, especially here - even in a dream. Pandemonium is not a kind place, he knows that - but Lucifer is a warrior, made though not born, and swordless or no, fearful or no, he’s equal to anything it can throw at him._

_As though to challenge that fragile admission of confidence, the darkness howls, and Lucifer draws a deep breath, lets the grey mist pull him under. He reaches out, wingtips scraping the walls and the floor as the middle two sets of wings carry him upward, two sets more wrapping tight around him to help cradle Sandalphon close as he throws wide his hands and rends the air with holy light._

_Fearful he may be, but he can still protect Sandalphon - protect them_ **_both_ ** _\- and he_ **_will_ ** _._

* * *

Lyria slips up to the deck once Djeeta falls asleep, curled up next to her still-unconscious (but recovering) brother, and settles in next to Lucio. The cord (still clinging to Lucifer) is quiet, and she finds she doesn’t quite like that; there should either be something coming through, or no link at all. Still, being near her sleeping angel friends feels right - like holding her own little vigil for their safe return. As the moon rises, she makes a little bouquet of all their fallen feathers for something to do with her hands; rose-gold pink and soft barred brown and white veined with pale pink, purple, and gold, speckled with glittering crimson.

She tries not to think too hard about how the pretty, smooth little ruby freckles on Lucifer’s scattered plumes are probably blood.

* * *

 _Sandalphon wakes to the tight press of feathers against his back and smooth skin against his face, the air crackling with light aether and stretched thin with the roars of dying beasts. He’s too stunned to struggle at first - how long has it been since he’s felt so_ ** _safe_** _? - but then common sense kicks in and reminds him_ ** _Pandemonium_** _and_ ** _danger_** _and he kicks loose from his soft, plumey prison to land feetfirst on some sort of mushy, half-scorched beast, burying his sword to the hilt in another and ripping it out through its side. He reverses the blade under his arm, drives it back into the inevitable ambush from behind (really, these things are_ ** _not_** _clever after the first thousand times) before he looks up to see just what was holding him - and freezes, staring in horrified awe at_ ** _Lucifer_** _, at the sweep of cloud-bright wings filling the upper half of the corridor, the slowly fading radiance wrapped in wisps and tendrils around his arms. As their eyes meet, as though sensing the gravity of the moment, even the endless hordes have stilled - for a moment it’s just the two of them and the air is_ ** _electric_** _-_

_“There you are!”_

_And the moment shatters like too-thin blown glass, because of course, of course on the day he finally goes mad he’d start hallucinating_ **_multiple_ ** _Lucifers, whyever not, and_ **_of course_ ** _he’d want to immediately punch the second one in the face, while the first one is basically wearing a_ **_blanket_ ** _and nothing else and_ **_protecting_ ** _him and he does_ **_not_ ** _need this. Eternal torment is preferable to - to whatever_ **_this_ ** _is because at least endlessly fighting for his life in hell is_ **_predictable_ ** _._

 _He turns from the new Lucifer to the old, who’s descended from where he was hovering - on_ **_twelve_ ** _wings? Was six not enough? - bare feet squelching disgustingly in the layer of scorched ichor on the floor as he picks his careful way over to Sandalphon and - and wreaths him in the six wings on his left, planting his body between the other fake and Sandalphon and like this he can_ **_feel_ ** _the first false Lucifer ask, in a voice much more cautious than he’s used to imagining, “Lucilius?”_

_“No, no. I’m Lucio - I forgive you the confusion, the three of us do look basically identical. I’m here to wake you.” His footsteps crunch nearer, and his voice goes soft. “You’re not alone.”_

_The wings covering Sandalphon tense as their owner’s breath hitches. “That was you?”_

_“It was - and I’m sorry I didn’t do more at the time, but I’m far too flighty for proper dreamwalking. I had help to get to you now.” A hand slips between the wings towards him and Sandalphon is mildly thrown by the intensity of his urge to_ **_stab_ ** _it before Lucifer steps a little away and Lucio is just - standing right there, hand outstretched, smiling the most disturbingly, infuriatingly placid smile for someone standing ankle deep in Pandemonium sludge._

_Sandalphon clenches his fists so hard he can feel the leather of his gloves creak as he meets that vapid gaze - how is it that someone basically identical to Lucifer can be as completely unlike him as this Lucio? - and then the fake’s eyes shift, widen, and a bubble of airy-beaten gold flicks up around them as the world blazes fuchsia._

_“And Belial makes three.” Lucio grumbles, looks over Sandalphon’s shoulder. “You know this isn’t going to go the way you want it to.”_

_“And you know I’m not going to stop ‘til I’m satisfied,” Belial growls, and Sandalphon spins to get his back away from him and - oh, well,_ **_another_ ** _one with more wings than he should have - wings and horns and claws, like a dragon, because of course he is, “so why don’t you come over here and let me have what I want?”_

 _And Lucio - Sandalphon’s expecting a jibe or a joke or_ **_something_ ** _, somehow, but no - Lucio just steps around him, efficient and smooth, one left, two forward, one right, and spreads his hands._

_“Come and try, then.”_

* * *

_Belial lunges straight into the explosion of light that Lucio gathers - but as soon as the air goes blue, he knows he’s been had._ **_“Speaker.”_ ** _He growls, and the disintegrating shell of dream-Pandemonium shakes around its last two inhabitants._

_Helel dips his head in serene acknowledgement. “Primarch.” He doesn’t flinch as Belial’s claws tear into his flesh, as pitch-black wings buffet, as fangs gnash at his throat, simply hovering still in the gathering void._

_“Let us_ **_out_ ** _.” The primarch bellows into his face, and it’s only a little bit a sob._

_“I can’t,” Lucio tells him, gently. “I can’t because I would have, and it would have ended terribly. And so it’s been placed in your hands, and out of mine.”_

_The Speaker pushes with one finger, delicately, on Belial’s forehead, slipping the primarch’s talons from his flesh - and lets him fall._

_He stays until Belial’s screams cease to echo._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you ever write something you absolutely hated but shoved it out there anyway because it's all you got?


	15. Flocking

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IT IS FINALLY!!!! TIME!!! FOR THE TAGS!!!!!!!! TO MATTER!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

The first thing Lucifer registers, after Lucio pushes him and Sandalphon back to reality, is the screaming fatigue shooting through his wings and down his back, the four fluttering and the six curled around him (and Sandalphon, who is warm and safe and very much alive, thank you) all aching like they’ve been repeating the same motion for days. He puts a very quick stop to that, slowing the flapping into a gentle descent until his bare feet touch smooth-weathered wood and he can let all the twelve (still too many by half) fold themselves up against his back. There’s a delicately wavery moment where he wobbles in trying to balance Sandalphon’s slumped body, but then he gets his feet braced and hefts the unconscious angel gently into his arms, gives himself a moment to guess how long he’s going to manage to walk before he just collapses in a heap. Maybe seventy steps, if he feels generous towards himself. (He does not, particularly, feel generous towards himself.)

He’s about to start when there’s a delighted little gasp from off to his right and slightly behind him - and then the soft patter of bare feet and a little grunt of effort and he just manages to stay upright, swaying, as Lyria attaches herself to his side, hugging him tightly. “You’re awake, you’re awake! Lucio found you okay?”

It takes him two tries to rasp out a “perfectly,” but it’s very easy to smile at her, especially when she reaches up to lightly touch Sandalphon’s hair, careful and delicate as though he might crumble, and Lucifer clears his throat again before he manages to murmur, “Sandalphon should wake soon, as well.”

“Oh, good!” She beams up at him, pauses, holds out a handful of feathers. “Um - may I keep these? They’re so pretty and they were sort of blowing away -”

Lucifer does try to answer her, but midway through his knees give up on him and he stumbles, nearly falls, already twisting so Sandalphon’ll land on top of him when there’s an arm around his waist and a shoulder braced against his - and he looks up into a mirror of his own face as Lucio beams at him. “I think we should save the questions until everyone’s sitting down, Lyria!” He chirps, and she goes bright pink, scuttles over and slips her own arm around Lucifer’s middle from the other side as a couple of - they’re primals too, he can feel the gentle thistledown brush of their auras, but his vision is swimming so all he sees of them is a flash of pale blue as they dart past and into the darkness.

He’s just starting to get his balance again when feet come pounding up the stairs and the Singularity in full, Gran and Djeeta both, join Lucio and Lyria in steadying him, the boy grunting a strained, “d’ya wanna maybe -”

“I think asking him to put Sandalphon down would maybe be a bad idea right now.” Lyria whispers to Djeeta - evidently she’s forgotten primarchs’ heightened senses - and the girl nods, elbowing her brother before he can get any further with his sentence.

“Uh, I mean - look, think you can manage a couple stairs? There’s a room right at the bottom you can use, it’s not Sandalphon’s but it’s got a bed, we just cleaned it, and I think you guys need rest more than you need propriety, huh?” Gran’s smile is a little strained. “And then we can talk in the morning or something.”

“That would be for the best, I think!” Lucio pipes up before Lucifer can muster the energy to do so, and he knows his expression is pathetic with gratitude but he just doesn’t _care_ , opting to focus what little remains of his energy on walking.

He nearly falls every other step down the staircase, but between Lucio and Lyria at his sides, with Gran walking backwards in front with hands up to catch, and Djeeta’s fingertips brushing his shoulders to let him know she’s there if he should fall behind, he makes it down the stairs, into the room, and actually manages to set Sandalphon down before he faceplants onto the bed next to him.

He’s quite literally asleep before his limbs have fully settled, all those wings (six was _enough_ ) unfurling to spill loose and soft over the bed and onto the floor.

* * *

Sandalphon wakes wrapped in a sunrise, warm and cozy, but he remembers himself and doesn’t whisper Lucifer’s name this time - opting instead to fold his wings up and see where he fell asleep. And he does fold them, can feel them rustling against his shoulderblades - but the spill of glorious plumage doesn’t move save to shift a tiny bit. As though - as though with someone’s breathing.

He holds his breath.

The feathers rise and fall again, and again, and a third time before he actually remembers to breathe - then he slowly, slowly turns onto his side -

And mashes his hands over his mouth, biting down on his glove to stifle his cry of raw, unbridled joy because Lucifer’s there, _right there_ , his face serene in gentle repose, lips slightly parted as he breathes. Sandalphon reaches out - hesitates, biting his lip so hard it hurts, peels off his gloves and reaches again but stalls before he touches, finally (berating himself all the while) just shuffles a little closer and closes his eyes, soaking in the warmth of the beloved presence he’d thought forever lost.

As he drifts back to sleep, he knows he’s grinning like a madman - and he just can’t bring himself to care.

* * *

Lucifer wakes slowly, awareness coming back to him like the slow pooling of water on dry ground, seeping in through the cracks. His wings are everywhere - worse than usual, in fact twice as bad, and he selfishly hopes he can give at least some of them back because this is just _excessive_ \- but as soon as he begins to move them he stops, because the six on the bed are covering Sandalphon and -

Well. He’s going for maximum selfishness, this - morning? Afternoon? - time, because rather than removing himself from the situation, he lets himself shuffle just a tiny bit closer, and finally slits his eyes open to peer at the face he’s missed so deeply. Sandalphon is smiling in his sleep, sweet and soft, his bird’s nest of hair flopping over his forehead and rumpling against his arm where it’s pillowing his head. Lucifer hesitates, then mentally shrugs, and reaches out to gently, tenderly smooth the wayward locks out of Sandalphon’s face, lets his hand linger for a moment on the sleeping primarch’s cheek before he withdraws it.

There’s a gentle poke to the back of his shoulder, then, and he carefully, carefully tucks the wings on that side up against his back, peering sidelong at - Lucilius? - no, no, Lucio, as it turns out, who smiles from where he sits by the window.

“Oh, good, I thought you would be awake by now.” 

Lucifer blinks. “Considering that you provided sufficient stimulus to wake a sleeping primarch, that seems more of an observation than an assumption to me.”

“Oh.” Lucio-not-Lucilius leans forward in his seat, pale blue eyes gleaming. “I was _wondering_ where Sandy got his snark. It makes sense it’d be you, Pygmalion.”

“I beg your pardon?” He knows the expression on Lucio-not-Lucilius-he-has-to-memorize-this’ face from the mirror, the crooked grin trying to masquerade as a serene little smile with a laugh caged behind his teeth. “Considering you know my name, which in fact shares half its letters with yours -”

“Creator preserve me, Lucifer, it’s a reference to a very old, very storied, very often reprised legend.” Lucio (who is still not Lucilius) sits back in his chair, fingers tenting in that way he remembers of old from his creator’s lectures and he fights very hard to remain lying down because Sandalphon needs to _sleep_ after all they’ve been through. “Pygmalion was a skydweller sculptor in the age of the astrals, who was very much alone in his work, and who had a quantity of plays written about him.” Pauses, grins. “Actually, I think asking Cagliostro about him might get you a better explanation! I’d just ramble on about the technicalities of filling the role, little brother.”

“I _beg_ your pardon?” Lucifer sputters, and he’s perhaps beginning to see why Sandalphon was so _annoyed_ with Lucio.

“Well, it’s that or grandson, and considering how peculiar it would be calling someone who looks like my twin something like my child, I think little brother’s the best choice.” He beams. “Besides, it’s all very strange with us, you know? Lucilius made you, you made Sandalphon, but I wouldn’t call either of you _fathers_.”

“Please don’t.” Lucifer feels his wings (all entirely-too-many of them, he _really_ isn’t fond of the extra half-dozen points of sensation) fluff and ruffle as a shudder runs down his spine.

“Mm, yes, you’re right - completely inappropriate considering your feelings towards Sandalphon.”

Lucifer squints across at him, gauging the distance - realizes he has nothing to throw and relaxes his tensed muscles with a serious and concerted effort. “ _Must_ you?”

Lucio blinks quizzically, then softens. “I’m sorry, Lucifer. A bit too far?”

“A trifle, yes.” The primarch sighs, drops his head back to the bed with a soft thump.

“Can I make it up to you in some way?”

He blinks at the sheets, rolls his head to one side, then the other. “Perhaps later.”

“Fair enough.” Lucio’s shoes click softly against the floor as he trots across, bends down to drop a little kiss on the top of Lucifer’s head. “Sleep well, little brother. I’ll inform Cagliostro you’ve awakened once so she can be here for the next time.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> spoiler alert: the myth of Pygmalion and Galatea has been very very much at the forefront of my mind this entire time and you better begoddamnlieve Cags is gonna have Words about it


	16. Charging

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> because we haven't had nearly enough Cagliostro in this Cagliostro-centric fic the past little while

He doesn’t quite manage to get back to sleep before the tiny skydweller woman - _Cagliostro_ , that was her name - comes bursting in, arms laden with papers that she promptly dumps on the window seat, tromps across to stand by the bed and ask, _sotto voce_ , “awake, are you?”

Lucifer rolls his head to the side, shoots her a serene (exhausted) little smile. “Yes, but Sandalphon isn’t yet.”

“I’ll keep it down, then, coffee boy went through a lot.” She squints down at him. “Haven’t fallen apart or anything, then?”

“No, your - it was your work?” He indicates himself with a lazy little flick of one hand, barely raising it off the mattress. “I am fully functional, thank you.”

“Mm. How do you feel?” She pauses in the middle of bending to scoop a handful of sheets off the floor, levels him with a glare. “The truth, mind you, I’m not in the business of having my ego stroked at the expense of my craft.”

“Exhausted,” he mumbles, “thirsty, thoroughly sore, and rather hoping to get rid of some of these.” He wiggles a wing for emphasis.

Cagliostro raises her eyebrows, and he can see her lips moving in a silent count. “How’d you wind up with that many, then? You were only structured for the six you were supposed to have.”

“Sandalphon gave them to me, I think.” Lucifer debates mentally, finally pushes up to prop his head on one hand, which is about as much energy as he feels like he has for formality, even though he knows he should be up and _polite_ about all this.

She looks concerned at him, peers over his shoulder at the wings curled over Sandalphon. “Can you get him up for a minute?”

 _Asking because she wants to help,_ he reminds himself, this isn’t an Astral and she brought him back simply because Sandalphon _asked -_ and shakes his head. “He wore himself out badly. I’d rather not wake him.”

“Alright, sunspot.” The woman flaps one of the sheets in her hand at him. “Do you think you could put his hands on this - index fingers on the little circles here, thumbs on the bigger ones close to the pointy bit, the pointy bit aimed at his chin - and hold them there for a minute, then? It’s a simple overall diagnostic.”

Lucifer hesitates - perhaps a moment too long, because then she’s shoving it at him instead. “Here, try it yourself - thumbs here, index fingers there, put your head down for a moment - I wanted to get your levels anyway and haven’t had a chance yet, but I want to compare his numbers to the baseline I got -” a pause as she chuckles, “- nearly a week ago, actually. Amazing how quick the time flies.”

He’s barely got his hands positioned before the sheet actually changes before his eyes, and he blinks down at it in absolute confusion, because he’s _never_ had a diagnostic not be unpleasant _somehow_ before. “How do those work?”

“I’ll give you the long answer some other time, but the short answer is alchemy, sunspot.” She grins, fishes the sheet from beneath his hands and flicks another one so it drapes over his head. “Now would you please do the thing for Sandalphon already? Time is knowledge and knowledge is power and all that - just tell me when you’ve done it so I can activate the circle.”

Lucifer, slightly stunned, does as he’s told - carefully ducking under his own wings to place Sandalphon’s hands on the page, which changes just as soon as he says “done.”

Cagliostro actually flops across his back to retrieve it before he can move, but she’s off of him before he can start to protest, so he lets it lie, watching as she digs through her papers to retrieve yet another sheet. She finds it with a little ‘aha!’ and launches herself to her feet, holds the two side by side, glancing back and forth between them, then frowns. “Mm. No wonder he’s tired.”

The primarch pushes up a little, nearly falls over, and he’s sure his alarm is weighing down his tone because it feels as urgent as any war proclamation when he asks, “what’s the problem?”

“Nothing immediately fatal, lie back down.” She sighs, sets the two pages on the nightstand, picks up Lucifer’s and looks it over. “Mana hypovolemia; he’s going to be pretty tired until he’s replenished. That’s how the wings work, then?”

“They’re repositories of power,” Lucifer lets himself settle back to the mattress, frowning. “I - I suppose it is, yes.”

“Well then, sunspot, looks like you’re going to get your wish.” She tweaks the alula of his topmost left wing gently, chuckling as he twitches it away from her. “Give him the spares back and you’ll both be fine. When I think about it, actually, the level of energy he’s used to carrying around is absolutely astronomical, especially considering how small he is comparatively.”

“I think he’s exactly the right size,” Lucifer mutters - Cagliostro pokes him in the cheek, grinning.

“And here we have the creator’s defensive response, we fail to reject the null hypothesis! Don’t worry, sunspot, coffee boy’s a good one.” She pats his head. “I got just as irritated when my dumbass apprentice said Ouroboros was too big. He’s exactly the size he’s supposed to be! Too big, bleh - stupid Pygmalion, some artist.”

“Who _was_ Pygmalion?” Lucifer blurts, pauses and lowers his gaze. “That is, Lucio suggested I ask you after he called me by his name. A skydweller sculptor of some description?”

“Only before I taught him alchemy, but yeah?” Cagliostro perches on the edge of the nightstand. “Nice man, very shy. He had a real artist’s eye, made constructs so beautiful he went and fell in love with one of them. I think they wrote a play about the entire thing, and got it all wrong, apart from the names and the loving his own creation thing - she wasn’t a _statue_ , that’s gross, and she did at _least_ half the pursuing - but it was pretty funny anyway. Pygmalion and - oh, what was her name, G-names are so generic - Geh, guh -” she hums, tapping a finger against her lower lip, then snaps her fingers, “Galatea! Galatea was her name, and despite the awfulness of her moniker she was absolutely precious.”

Lucifer tucks his uppermost right wing over his face, and tries to keep the groan out of his voice. “I see.”

Cagliostro goes quiet for a moment, then gently but firmly pushes his wing out of his face and pins him down with a stare. “Look, sunspot, I may not know you, but I know the boy went through self-imposed hell to bring you back. You don’t get to be a coward about this; you don’t get to wonder if you deserve that level of loyalty, you just get to do your best to be worthy of it. Whether you think you can or not.” She stands up, brushes her dress firmly down, gaze distant and tone businesslike. “I’ll bring you something to eat and some water. Get some more rest, try to get Sandalphon to eat and drink something when he wakes up, and I’ll ask the others how transferring wings around works, just in case.”

She’s off before he can respond, and Lucifer just - lies there, for a moment, and imagines the gears in his brain grinding as he processes all this new information.

And then he reaches over, and takes Sandalphon’s hand, and starts the slow, tedious process of unpicking the knots of aether that make up his entire cohort of wings, looking for the keylines that’ll let him give the extras back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Other potential Cagliostro-brand nicknames for Lucifer: moon-moon, fluffy, captain no-pants.


	17. Pattern Welding

Cagliostro takes a moment outside the door to compose herself, playing with her brooch and scowling at nothing. She’d managed to forget that time before - well, before, when alchemy was still fairly new, before she was either revered or reviled. And yet, the simple mention of one of her first apprentices - one of the very first prodigies of _her_ art - has reminded her of everything she left behind when she made herself immortal. The ache left by her sister’s death (through old age or not, still such a loss), once-dormant, roars back to life, and she grimaces as she turns down the hall, not-quite running but not walking, either.

Barely noon or not, she needs a damned drink - but at least she knows where to get one, and she can accomplish her errands while she’s at it.

* * *

Ladiva, for all that she’s an unaltered, very mortal Draph, seems to have superhuman stamina when it comes to her bar, and despite what must have been a late night (they’re all late nights) she’s standing behind the counter chopping up fruit when Cagliostro slouches in and scrambles up onto one of the tall stools. The barkeep takes one look at the alchemist’s face, then tuts and reaches for a tall glass and a couple of bottles, muddling fresh fruit with a splash of this and a dash of that, then straining it into another glass and topping it off with something fizzy and a pair of preserved cherries. She finishes the whole thing with a careful sprinkle of sparkling rainbow sugar that leaves colorful trails in the pale peachy drink as it sinks, places the glass and a paper straw in front of the alchemist before she speaks. “I haven’t seen you here in weeks, Miss Cags. How’s your big project?”

Cagliostro takes a sip of the concoction before she speaks - lets the sweet burn of fruit and spirits roll over her tongue and down her throat, then drops her head on the bar with a grumble. “ _Stupid._ If the astrals weren’t already all dead I’d be debating going to blow them up myself.”

Another soft tut as Ladiva tips her cutting board’s contents into a container, seals the lid, then rinses and wipes her hands and slips ‘round the bar to sit beside the alchemist. “Is the design giving you trouble?”

“What? No, that part’s done, the physical parts are all done.” She raises her head, props her chin on her hands as she looks at Ladiva. “It’s just that - ugh. They took these beautiful, intelligent beings and - since they’d made them - decided that meant they could treat them like animals - no, worse than animals, worse than _monsters_.”

The draph frowns, resting a warm hand on her shoulder. “Are you sure?”

“I have eyes, Diva!” She tightens her grip on the glass. “I rebuilt the one from the ground up and do you know what he did today? He was practically dead of exhaustion and he tried to get up and act like he was fine and he was _actually frightened_ , you know, to let me see his friend - he was _surprised_ when I ran a diagnostic on him and it didn’t _hurt_ , he _flinched_ when he asked me a question, one very simple question! That I didn’t mind! He was scared to admit he wasn’t feeling well after spending the last two days after being _rebuilt from nothing_ in constant motion!”

A warm arm slips around her shoulders, and Cagliostro buries her face in Ladiva’s shirt, lets the bigger woman shush her as she absolutely does not cry, it’s allergies, she’s allergic to how _stupid_ the astrals were.

“Is that all?” She can feel the low rumbling of Ladiva’s voice in her cheek, and she shakes her head.

“He asked - asked about an old apprentice, of mine, and - and it’s just -” she sniffles, pulls back and lets Ladiva hand her a clean old rag, one of the ones she uses on the bar, to dry her wet cheeks, “- he was - around the same time as my sister, and I - I miss her, Diva. Just - just sometimes, but I miss her.”

Ladiva sniffles, dabs delicately at her own eyes with another rag from the multitudes bulging one pocket of her apron. “Oh, Caggie dear.”

“It’s silly, isn’t it?” She grabs her drink, pulls it closer, swirls it a little and watches the faint blooms of color left by the sugar mingle and sink. “That I still miss her after so long, even though I’m sure I’ve made my peace with it. Nothing was left unsaid, even!”

“It’s not silly, and you know that. You’re much too smart not to.” Ladiva squeezes her shoulder. “I don’t mind reminding you, though. What else are friends for?”

Cagliostro manages a wry, tired little smile as she cradles her drink and begins sipping in earnest. “You’re right, of course. Do you ever get tired of it?”

“Of what, dear?” The draph smiles down at her, eyes still wet.

“Being right, you know.” Another sip of the drink, and it really is dreadfully good, cool and warming in all the right proportions and ways.

Ladiva laughs gently. “Oh, never. Would you?”

“Only sometimes, Diva.” She sighs, swirls her drink again. “Only about some things.”

* * *

She leaves Raduga half an hour later, fed (one does not leave Ladiva’s establishment unfed) and pleasantly warm, carrying a stack of sealed containers full of assorted easy-on-the-stomach foodstuffs - soup, sliced fruit, lightly spiced oatmeal cookies (which Cagliostro has her doubts about on the easily-digested front, but Ladiva had insisted that she bring Sandalphon and Lucifer _some_ kind of treat) - a large bottle of water and two napkin-wrapped parcels of utensils. The trek back to the room the two primarchs are occupying is fairly long, and so it’s no surprise when Djeeta falls in with her along the way, taking the water and utensils so she can balance the containers a little more easily. A little more surprising, though not much, is Gabriel swooping in on the other side an instant later, and the food nearly winds up all over the floor as they wrestle over who’s carrying what - finally, Cagliostro grudgingly cedes the cookies, and they make it the rest of the way unmolested. The alchemist blocks the door with her body before they can go in, though, turns to Gabriel. “How do you give others your wings?”

She blinks. “...Very carefully?”

The alchemist squints judgmentally at her, then sighs and steps aside. “Just. Help Lucifer with it if he needs you to, I guess. Sandalphon went and got himself most of the way to mana exhaustion by giving Lucifer a half-dozen of his and it’s important he get them back so he can recover.”

The primarch frowns, inclining her head. “If he needs my help, I’ll give it, of course.”

Cagliostro just looks to Djeeta. “Door, please, I don’t want to drop these.”

* * *

Sandalphon is not entirely certain he’s actually alive. Nothing hurts - he’s reasonably sure it should, between Pandemonium (if it wasn’t a dream) and getting blasted through the chest (definitely not a dream, he remembers the texture of cloudstuff through his wings and the tang of blood on his tongue) -

But then, Lucifer’d healed that, hadn’t he? Even now the air smells of sunshine and roasting coffee, warm and soft and everywhere, the entire reason he’s so fussy about his blends because he’s trying to capture that scent and failing every time. But he’s warm, and comfortable, and when he shuffles closer to the warm (all around but more intense in front of him) and burrows his face against it, it smells like Lucifer.

Maybe he’s still dreaming. It’s a good dream, though; someone’s holding his hand.

* * *

Lucifer is wakened from a light doze by a warm weight against his shoulder, and turns his head to find himself nose to nose with Sandalphon, who is still dead to the world. Still smiling, though - and their hands are still loosely tangled together, halfway under his chest.

He can’t help but smile himself, then squints and goes back to the tangle of wings. They shouldn’t _all_ still feel like his; Sandalphon’d had the six he passed on for nearly a year and a half, but then - then it hits him that the problem is that he’s freshly-embodied in a form that’s brimming with Sandalphon’s own aether. There’s not _going_ to be a palpable difference, not until he’s fully settled in himself, and there’s not time to wait for that - but he can’t very well just rip them all out by the root and shove them across because that would kill him and they’d be right back where they started. And so, thread by thread, he’s stuck untangling each pair of wings from its neighbor.

It’s... slow, and tedious, but not difficult - really, the only problem is that he keeps falling asleep in the middle of it.

And then, mid-tweak of an aetherial string, the door creaks open and he freezes solid, the wings draped over Sandalphon tucking tight around him.

“Just us, sunspot,” comes Cagliostro’s voice, quiet and calm, and he relaxes a little as she comes in with a couple of containers, followed by Djeeta and - oh. Gabriel.

He hasn’t seen her in years now, and she lights up when her eyes catch his. “Supreme - that is, um - Lucifer! It’s so very good to see you.”

Lucifer... _wants_ to be happy to see her, but truthfully he’s so worn down that her nearly calling him supreme primarch has made him want to snarl her out of the damned room, and damn the consequences too. He doesn’t, though, just pastes on as serene a smile as he can manage and bobs a little nod. “Forgive me for not rising; it’s good to see you’re well, Gabriel.” 

“If you tried I’d knock you right back over,” Cagliostro mutters, setting her containers down and prying off the lids. “What do you feel up to trying to eat? There’s an egg and lemon soup, or peaches, plums and apricots, or if you feel daring there’s oatmeal cookies. Djeeta, could you get a couple of glasses down?”

The singularity does as she’s told, and Lucifer does his level best not to groan when a glass of water is finally pressed into his hands, sipping slowly despite the sudden roaring return of the thirst he’s nursed all day. 

“Sunspot. Soup, fruit, or dessert first?” The alchemist prompts gently, and - well, it’s the least messy option, he supposes, if he’s careful.

He takes another deliberate swallow of his water before he looks up. “I would - that is, may I have a cookie?”

Cagliostro takes another container from Gabriel, pops it open, and offers it to him. “Take a couple,” she suggests gently, “you may as well, and you can have some of the other things once you’re up. Fruit’d probably get stickier more quickly. Is Sandalphon up?”

He shakes his head as he takes the two cookies she suggested. “He moved a bit closer, but he’s still asleep. I - am working on the wings, but it’s slower than I’d like.”

“Would you like some help?” The alchemist keeps her voice gentle, and nods when Lucifer shakes his head. “Fair enough.”

“Are you sure, Lucifer?” Gabriel chimes in, leaning over, one hand already reaching for his shoulder. “I could just -”

“No.” Lucifer swallows hard, and his smile goes brittle. “Thank you, no.”

“But I -”

“Gabriel,” Cagliostro interjects sternly, “would you please take Djeeta and see how Gran is feeling now? He could probably benefit from you looking him over, just to be sure Belial left no lasting effects.”

Djeeta nods earnestly, turning on the charm. “Please, Gabriel? He was really deep under and he was still a little weird earlier.”

“I - alright, of course. I’ll come back later, Lucifer, and it’s good to see you awake, really!” Gabriel beams, and sweeps from the room - followed by Djeeta, who shoots the prone primarch a tiny salute before she follows.

Lucifer blinks, probing the hollows within him for guilt at how brusquely he just treated one of his oldest friends - and is mildly dismayed when he only finds relief that she’s not in the room anymore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> or, Character Development? Never Met 'Er.


	18. Tracking

Gran is minding his own business, sitting up in bed with a book and Vyrn draped around his neck like a scarf (the little dragon both clingy and exhausted after the nights they’d had) when Djeeta tears into the room and hisses, “act sick!” He knows better than to do anything else, immediately slouches back against the pillows with the book hastily discarded to one side, and Djeeta dumps some water from the glass at his bedside on her hand and tousles his hair messily with it before flopping onto the edge of the bed and looking Concerned. (Regular concerned is usually genuine and exactly what she’s been for the past few days. Capital-C Concerned is what the twins have always used to grift extra treats from the adults in their lives, and they have it honed to a science.)

By the time Gabriel gets in, Gran’s a little glassy-eyed and staring, looks sweaty and dishevelled, and both Djeeta and Vyrn appear to be worried out of their minds. (Vyrn, of course, is as much in on the Concerned act as either of his human friends.)

The ex-primarch of water is gentle and motherly in her fussing, and Gran lets it happen, lets himself enjoy the cool press of a hand on his brow and the soft queries of how he’s been feeling. It’s nice being mothered, especially when it’s not putting the burden on Djeeta to do it, and he lets himself lean into it. He’s not entirely certain _why_ he’s doing it, but he’s sure he’ll get an explanation later - for now, he’s just going to sit back and enjoy Gabriel caring for him.

* * *

 Cagliostro doesn’t say anything after shooing Djeeta and Gabriel, just settles in on the window seat and leafs through the paperwork she’d left. It’s mostly unused diagnostic circles, but it provides a sufficiently neutral sort of background noise while keeping her hands busy, and that’s really all she needs it for. On the bed, Lucifer is quietly staring into his empty water glass, cookies apparently forgotten beside his left hand, wings shifting like an anxious bird’s, though he’s otherwise still. She can just see Sandalphon’s dark head drooping against his pale shoulder, and her mind slides back to the fact that the Supreme Primarch had, apparently, less than a third of his normal aether reserves available to him when the test resolved. Not ideal, not when most beings would be dead outright at that level, but evidently the rules bend when primals are involved.

“Sunspot?” She finally speaks up, and Sandalphon vanishes behind the cloud of feathers again. “How’s it coming?”

Lucifer makes an indistinct, uncomfortable noise, and the wings rustle - save for one pair, which remains still, draped across the bed and the floor. “I may need some help, I’m afraid.”

“Define help.” The alchemist sets her sheets aside, leans forward a little, expectant.

“I - might need a hand removing the, ah, the spares.” His voice is hesitant, his cheeks ivory-white, and he doesn’t meet her eyes. “Since I can’t precisely will them where they need to go at present.”

Cagliostro frowns. “I mean - I’m not sure there’s an anaesthetic that’d work on you and I’m not exactly a surgeon but -”

“No, no, just -” he makes a vicious tearing gesture, “- they’re only - only sort of held on anyway and time, you said, time is of the essence.”

The alchemist feels something hot and angry coiling behind her eyes, bites her tongue before she snaps and finally grits out, “let me get this straight, you want me to - what, rip your wings off?”

“It’s - it shouldn’t be difficult; I’d do it myself, only the angle is -” he makes a groping motion at his own back, shrugs helplessly, his eyes hidden behind the thick fringe of his hair, “- a bit too awkward for me. They should come free easily enough.”

“Painlessly?” She forces out, and his silence lasts a moment too long. “ _Painlessly_ , sunspot?”

“It’s a small hurt.” He murmurs, distantly, “I’ve experienced worse for less reason. If you wait ‘til I’ve severed all three pairs you may be able to do them all at once -”

“And have coffee boy gut me for hurting you, really?” She forces her tone to be light even as something in her seethes. “Absolutely not, it’ll wait ‘til I find a way to keep it from being painful. I don’t _harm_ my creations, even the ones that weren’t technically originally mine.”

He flinches, and she stops, sighs, slips from her seat and goes to stand by the bed. “This may come as a surprise to you, but your comfort _matters_ , sunspot.”

Lucifer still doesn’t look at her, but he nods - which is at least something, she supposes. “I understand.”

“I don’t think you do, not yet, but I imagine you will, given time. Will you be alright alone for a little while? I need to go to my workroom for some supplies.” He glances at her sidelong, and she shrugs. “You do need to give him the wings back. I’m willing to help with that, just - not without taking care of you as well. So.”

“I - we should be alright, yes.” The wings - all but _two_ pairs, this time, the boy’s making progress - shift a little. “Thank you.”

She grins. “Of course.”

This time, she leaves with a little bit of a bounce to her step - even if the conversation leading there was painful, she’s still getting to show off another facet of her genius to a new person. Granted, he should’ve already _known_ \- but there’s knowing and experiencing, she supposes, and this will be an _experience_.

This project, she thinks, is the gift that keeps on giving.

* * *

 

Clarisse is tidying up the last of the mess in the workroom (so much broken glass) when Cagliostro comes trotting in and immediately goes digging through the newly-reorganized drawers. “Are there any pre-mixed bottles of numbing agent still, or were they all broken?”

“I.” She pauses, blinks, squints as she thinks back. “Should be one or two in the first-aid kit.”

“We have one of those?” Cagliostro doesn’t look up from the drawers, though her hands still within them, and her student groans.

“Bottom drawer, master. Bottom _left_.” She corrects herself hastily, quickly nudges it shut and follows as Cagliostro snatches the kit and goes running off back out of the room, broom and pile of glass shards forgotten because _this_ promises to be far more interesting.

* * *

 Sandalphon wakes the third time as his cheek comes to rest on a pillow, and opens his eyes to a nightmare. He’s impossibly weak, can scarcely move, and save for a few bloodstained feathers, Lucifer’s side of the bed is empty. There’s blurry movement beyond that, the slow, jerky wave of a single white wing and shadowy figures and one of them bends -

The unmistakable crack of bone and sinew splits the quiet and Sandalphon moans a breathless “no,” willing his useless body to move, to _do something_ , they’re _hurting him_ \- he’s barely _seen_ Lucifer alive and he _won’t_ lose him again - and he hits the floor, all ungainly, grunting as he scrabbles forward, wings flopping uselessly as he wraps his arms around the limp, pale form and curls as far overtop of him as he can but it’s _too late_ like he _always is_ and he groans as - as he feels the white wings that’ve been torn from their rightful owner fusing themselves to his back because no, no, not again, never again. Lucifer’s still there in his arms and he frantically flails the wings back over his shoulders, grabbing and _yanking_ because maybe - maybe if he gives them back quickly enough - but hands snatch his and he cries out in anguish because he _can’t_ do this again, he can’t and he won’t and _let go_ -!

“- alphon - _Sandalphon_ , stop!”

He goes still. Lucifer, far from being dead, is up on his knees in front of him, still _alive_ , holding his hands tightly, and his expression mirrors Sandalphon’s own panic and - and his wings, _his wings_ are all fluffed with alarm, all six there and whole and -

Lucifer just barely catches himself as Sandalphon hurtles into his chest, clutching onto him like he’s about to be snatched away. He fights himself for just a fraction of a moment before he gives, wraps the smaller primarch in his arms and curls in around him, whispering words of comfort into his hair.

Around them, twelve white wings neatly slot together, a dozen perfectly-matching puzzle pieces.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> or, THEY'RE FINALLY AWAKE, IN THE SAME ROOM, AND WILLINGLY TOUCHING EACH OTHER! AFTER! EIGHTEEN! CHAPTERS!
> 
> when I said slow burn even _I_ wasn't quite expecting _this_ slow.


	19. Fasteners

Lyria is, at this point, very used to foreign emotions. She’s been halfway in Gran and Djeeta’s heads for years now, after all, and the twins are turbulent beings, all light and fire and naughtiness; currently curlingly pleased with themselves for playfully fooling Gabriel, and it’s like the sweater Katalina knitted for her, messy and frayed, soft and warm. She’s basking in the sun on the upper deck and enjoying her friends’ secondhand mischief when the thread still linking her to Lucifer goes taut with the echoes of  _ hurt-fear-panic _ and she doesn’t even think before she goes leaping down the steps like a deer, bare feet slipping on the rough wood as she launches herself at the door and bursts into the bedroom - nearly runs straight into Clarisse and then Cagliostro as she trips over an empty bottle on the floor.

There’s a tangle of white wings next to the bed, and as they curl around each other the thread quiets to  _ relief-apology-something _ .  _ Something _ she’s not quite sure of but - it’s fierce as fire and soft as thistledown, heavy and thick and sweet like honey at the back of her tongue, like the gentle emptiness at the end of a good cry, like happily-ever-after. It feels like Djeeta, and that causes a little tingle in the back of her mind, the softest, gentlest  _ oh. _ But that can come later because right now her eyes are stinging sweetly because Sandalphon and Lucifer are both up! And together! And happy!

Cagliostro makes a noise that she absolutely wouldn’t quantify as a  _ squeak _ when Lyria grabs her and Clarisse and squishes them. (Clarisse, on the other hand, absolutely would. And does.)

* * *

Sandalphon takes a little while, after the first rush of terror-heartbreak- _ relief _ has ebbed, to just - be, to take the minutiae of this moment and save them in that little place inside himself where happiness lives. Lucifer’s body is warm and solid, arms steady around him and core thrumming strong and he lets himself forget, for a moment, that anything exists outside of this and of them. Every primarch’s core, he’s reasonably sure, sounds a little different. He knows from experience that Gabriel’s is like the hush of waves on sand, Michael’s the low, steady roar of a brushfire -

Lucifer’s, unlike either of those, sounds almost like a mortal heart, the gentle two-stroke beat a familiar, soothing rhythm under his ear. His own core slows its hum to match, and Sandalphon finally relaxes, lets his death grip slacken to a gentler embrace. Lets himself wonder if Lucifer’s core sounded like that when he was created, or if it changed. Lets himself wonder if, perhaps, his will sound the same someday.

Here, in the soft radiance of their combined twelve wings (some kind of miracle, impossible, real all the same), time stands still.

* * *

Lucifer is perfectly content to sit there forever - or would be, but his return to physicality has apparently brought along all its trappings. Including the unfortunate fact that, no matter how tranquil and cathartic the moment or tender the long-awaited embrace, kneeling on a hardwood floor with a full-sized being (even if he  _ is _ perhaps somewhat smaller than average) on one’s lap is rather hard on the knees. He does his level best not to show his discomfort, but after a few minutes his lower wings twitch and of course Sandalphon notices and nearly falls over in his haste to release him, stammering out a dozen apologies as their feathery cocoon dissolves and of course, they topple together, Lucifer executing an uncannily catlike twist to ensure Sandalphon doesn’t hit the floor, cushioning his own head with a wing so it doesn’t bounce.

Sandalphon, he’s fondly amused to note, looks somewhere between horrified and angry as he sits up, staring down at him. “Why would you -”

“I am somewhat more awake than you are?” Lucifer offers as he also wriggles up to sit, and he knows his smile looks far closer to smug than serene but he’s positively  _ giddy _ with the lessened weight on his shoulders. “Besides, the numbing compound Mistress Cagliostro applied to my back is still in effect. It seems unnecessary to let you feel pain when I would experience none, Sandalphon.”

“Numbing -?” He sputters, looks over his own shoulder at the six white (and two brown) wings on his own back, looks back at Lucifer and his own six, understanding slowly dawning on his face. “You had -”

“Twelve, yes, and while I appreciate that the situation was dire, please, never do that again.” He tries to stifle his agitation, but he can feel his wings shifting, tangles his fingers in the now rather battered blanket still protecting his modesty to keep from picking at his fingernails and lets his voice slip low. “I could feel you fading.”

A soft sadness flits across Sandalphon’s face and leaves his brow pinched and eyes downcast, even as he nods. “I won’t.”

“You’d best not,” comes Cagliostro’s voice, and Sandalphon very nearly goes toppling over again, but he catches himself with a hasty twitch of a wing, a hand on the side of the mattress, “because I swear, at some point the sunk cost fallacy won’t inform my actions anymore and then you two will be in  _ trouble. _ ”

Her actions bely her words though, because she’s already flitting around them, fingers ruffling through Lucifer’s hair to check for a lump (there isn’t one, and he’d swear there’s a flash of pride in her expression as she turns away), steadying Sandalphon with a touch, and finally dropping diagnostic slips into each of their laps and just standing with crossed arms and an expectant expression. Sandalphon follows her unspoken instructions first, lets the paper flash and resolve into numbers, but waits until Lucifer’s also done to take his page and hand them both to the alchemist at once.

She actually smiles when she looks at them, setting them afloat in the air on a faint green curl of breeze as she fishes out a notebook and begins to scribble, glancing from notes to slips and back. “Well, that’s better now; you’re not going to die in your sleep anytime soon.” Peers over them at the two primarchs. “Although I warn you, if you attempt to do anything more strenuous than walking around for the next few days, I’ll strap you to the bed, do you understand me? No more primal beast magic shenanigans until you’ve both recovered a bit more, or  _ else. _ ”

Lucifer blinks up at her, and perhaps he’s a bit too affected by the sheer emotional whiplash of today, because, rather than his intended neutrally-polite assent, what trips off his tongue is a startlingly-sassy “yes,  _ ma’am. _ ” 

Clarisse bursts out laughing as both Lucifer and Sandalphon’s eyes go owlishly wide, but Cagliostro just grins. “ _ Yes. _ More of that, sunspot. Coffee boy, take notes, this man’s been here less than a day and he already gets it.” She points at the bed. “Now sit down and eat something, you two. Ladiva won’t ever let me live it down if she finds out I wasted her cooking.”

Lyria, over by the door, gets a chestful of  _ confusion-amusement-relief _ and bursts into giggles.

* * *

Gran and Djeeta, sitting together on his bed, find themselves giggling too; Vyrn, lying between them, lazily opens one eye and pokes at them with his tail. “What’s funny?”

“What’s not?” Gran retaliates, scooping the tiny dragon up and rolling him over and over in his arms ‘til he squawks and takes refuge on his sister’s shoulders. “I just feel -”

“- happy,” Djeeta finishes for him, and he nods. “Just happy.”

“It  _ was _ kinda nice getting pampered a little,” he murmurs, and she flashes him a little grin.

“And you saved Lucifer from getting steamrolled, so it was kinda a win-win.” She runs her fingers over Vyrn’s head, leans her cheek against the tiny dragon’s flank as her expression sobers. “He’s hurt too.”

“Surprising no one,” her brother mutters, slouches forward to flop against her shoulder as his good mood fades a little, “I don’t think we’ve met a single primal who wasn’t broken somewhere.”

Djeeta sighs, raises her other hand to Gran’s head and riffles her fingers through his hair, smoothing out the tangles she’d put there. “It isn’t fair, is it?”

“It’s really not.” He shrugs, same as always, calm in the face of what he can’t change. “Can’t do anything about it now, though.”

“Just help them pick up the pieces, I guess?” Djeeta’s voice wavers, uncertain, halfway asking permission, and Gran pokes her in the side.

“Isn’t that what we do? We’re skyfarers, Dee, we help people.”

“Especially crewmates.” She sighs, squares her shoulders and grins down at her twin.

He grins back up at her. “Yeah.  _ Especially _ crewmates.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and so begins the Soft Part :)


	20. Development

Sandalphon doesn’t manage to stay awake for too much longer after that. He grudgingly consumes a bit of fruit, drinks a glass of water Lucifer presses on him - and then he’s abruptly horizontal, and doesn’t bother questioning it. He’s warm, the room’s hazy and swimmy, and everything smells of sunshine and roasting coffee.

The soft rustle of feathers is the very last thing he hears before he’s out.

* * *

As the night wears on, Lucifer can’t bring himself to put his wings away; for all that he’s uncomfortable, the muscles in his back a little strained, he can’t bring himself to  _ not _ shield Sandalphon as he sleeps. He’s well aware it’s irrational - they’re on the singularities’ airship, with a crew that treats his solace as one of their own, there’s scarcely anywhere safer - and yet the thought of leaving him unguarded is terrifying. As though challenging his fortitude, his shoulders twinge tightly - he rolls them a little but that only makes it worse, the wings on his right side shuddering down until the primaries of the middle one brush Sandalphon’s hair lightly. The sleeping primarch stirs, makes a tiny grumbling noise - and then scoots right up to Lucifer and curls into his chest, a little hum of content vibrating between them as Sandalphon settles back down, breathing slow and easy.

Lucifer feels his own breath hitch - then gently, tentatively wraps his arms around Sandalphon and lets his right-hand wings loosely drape over them both, the left drifting limp over the pillows Cagliostro had insisted on tucking beneath them.

And, more comfortable than he can ever remember being, the once-supreme primarch finally slips off to sleep, curled around his successor.

* * *

Gran sneaks out of bed as soon as he glimpses the first hint of pink in the clouds through his little round window. It’s not hard even with his twin curled up beside him; she sleeps like the dead anyway, and he’s been doing this for a long time. He slips into a loose old sweater, carefully sidles out the door, only half-opened so it doesn’t creak, takes his time trundling to the kitchen for a cup of cocoa (he doesn’t really like coffee, though Sandalphon’s been wearing him down on that point over the past year) and carries it up to the deck when it’s done. Noa’s minding the helm like he always does overnight, and they share a quiet nod of mutual acknowledgment before Gran tucks himself into one of the thick coils of heavy rope by the railing, and settles in to watch the sun rise.

There’s a soft rustle of feathers, then the soft padding of bare feet on wood, and he scoots over just in time to not spill his drink as Lucio flops down beside him, his own cup of hot chocolate sloshing dangerously. “Morning to you too,” the boy grins, elbows the angel lightly, “you’re not even trying today, are you?”

“Trying?” Lucio echoes, flutters his eyelashes at Gran. “Trying to what?”

“Sneak up on me.” Another gentle nudge. “‘S not like you, usually you seem to want to make me wear my cocoa.”

“Can’t I be kind to my still-recovering captain once in awhile?” A tiny wing wiggles against Gran’s shoulder, ruffling his hair with a breeze that smells faintly of cotton candy. 

“You can, but it’s gonna make him worried what your long game is.” The captain reaches up, pats Lucio’s head lightly.

“Do I always have to have one?” His pout is absolutely outrageous, and Gran doesn’t even feel bad when he bursts out laughing.   
“I -” he chuckles, “I’d say no, but that would imply I don’t know you at all, and I’m not as good a liar as Dee.”

“Perhaps you don’t know me!” Lucio chirps. “Perhaps this is all an elaborate ruse, and I’m only here to confuse and distract you.”

“No offence, ‘cio,” Gran grins, “but I think that anyone who wanted to, uh, ruse me or Dee would probably send someone, y’know. Competent.”

The actor-cum-angel huffs, gives the captain a little push. “I am  _ absolutely _ competent - why, I could ruse circles around you and you’d never know it!”

“Sure you could, ‘cio, and I could secretly be Bahamut incarnate.” He pushes back, gently. 

Lucio’s lips curl up in a little smirk before he sets his cup down with a loud clunk, flinging himself off the rope at Gran’s feet. “Lord Bahamut!” He cries, clinging to the captain’s knees. “I am unworthy!”

Gran dumps the remainder of his cocoa over Lucio’s head before he shoves him off and topples over beside him, their mingled laughter ringing through the dawn-gilded sky.

* * *

Sandalphon awakens wrapped in Lucifer’s wings yet again - but he almost doesn’t notice for being tangled up with the rest of him, their arms around each other, the other primarch’s sleep-slow breathing ruffling his hair. It’s intimate in a way he’d never dared to hope for, and he basks in it, in the warmth where their bodies press together, his cheek against Lucifer’s collarbone, Lucifer’s lips brushing his temple. His shoulders twinge a little, reminding him of the burden of feathers they’ve borne overnight, and he dismisses the supreme primarch’s half-dozen wings with a thought, but keeps his own out so he can carefully, tentatively thread the left one between Lucifer’s, curling it over the other primarch’s unprotected back.

“Sandalphon?” Comes the immediate, if drowsy, murmur, and he feels his cheeks go hot.

“I’m here,” Sandalphon whispers back, peeks up at Lucifer’s face, “I’m here, go back to sleep.”

“Mm,” Lucifer mumbles, smiling sleepily as his eyes drift shut - and Sandalphon feels his core stutter as the arms around him tighten in a brief squeeze, like a child with a stuffed toy.

He squeezes back, and closes his own eyes - after all, if he can’t get up without disturbing Lucifer, what should it matter that he doesn’t want to?

* * *

Cagliostro takes her time, in the morning, scraping herself out of bed and over to the bathing room on her level, silently blessing Gabriel and Europa for their willingness to create frivolous water features like the showers on the Grandcypher. Most skyships, she knows from unpleasant experience, are considered luxurious if the passengers get a half-full bucket to wash in, something as lush as an actual landside bathroom is not to be dreamt of. Except, apparently, when primal beasts are concerned.

That seems to be a recurring theme; everything works this way, except where primal beasts are concerned. Something to study further later, she decides, rinsing her hair clean. She does, after all, still have  _ quite _ a quantity of data to examine.

She dries off, dresses, goes to the kitchen (notes that Gran and Lucio’s favorite mugs are drying by the sink and figures that means the captain’s feeling better - good) and makes a pot of tea, and brings it, her reams of data, three mugs and the jar of gingersnaps from under the counter to Lucifer and Sandalphon’s room.

They’re still asleep, curled up in a white-and-brown ball of feathers, so she sets up on the window seat, pours herself a cup of tea, fishes a gingersnap from the jar, and settles in to wait.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apparently writing softness is hard. ho hum.


	21. Deburring

Lucifer comes awake at the soft creak of the door - freezes completely solid, not even breathing, as the floor creaks lightly, closer and closer and - oh. The footsteps are light but not predator-light as they turn from the bed; let-them-sleep rather than make-them-sleep (forever). Whoever it is probably isn’t a threat, and when he finally feels safe enough to draw a breath the scent of tea (orange, cinnamon, cloves) and dusty ginger relaxes him a little further.

Assassins don’t bring snacks, after all.

Sandalphon stirs a little in his arms, and he realizes all at once how entangled they are, one brown wing (half of the only pair he’s kept manifested) and both the smaller primarch’s arms around him, their legs wrapped together, Sandalphon’s face tucked against his throat. It makes his newly-restored core ache a little with all the sweet yearning he’s kept buried for so long, but he pushes it back still. He can keep it tethered a bit longer; there’s much and more that they still need to say, acres of heartbreak and old scars to clear before it can safely have free rein. But then Sandalphon makes an incoherent little grumbling noise and noses into the crook of his shoulder, and Lucifer gives in just a fraction, turning his head to brush the faintest breath of a kiss against his temple, gently, softly petting his hair. The smaller primarch settles immediately, his wing curling in a little tighter, and oh, but it feels terribly natural, this giving and taking of comfort through touch - even though he’s only done this with Sandalphon once before, lifetimes ago. 

It can’t last, and so he simply settles in to enjoy this - this impossible, wonderful time of rest, until its inevitable end. 

* * *

Lucio doesn’t need to sleep, but he finds himself yawning after he sees Gran back to bed, trundles back to his own little chamber and pours himself onto his cot with a contented sigh. The blanket slips up around his shoulders, and he takes a moment to nuzzle into his lavender-scented pillow, luxuriating in the slow pull of temporary oblivion. He doesn’t  _ need _ sleep - but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t feel _ damn good _ sometimes.

* * *

_ It’s not Lucifer here, in this liminal space. Sandalphon is just awake enough to know that the body strewn across the floor like fallen feathers is an illusion of his self-hating mind, that the real Lucifer is waiting when he wakes. It doesn’t make it hurt any less. _

_ “Lucifer,” he murmurs, tongue heavy with all the meanings of that name. Light-bringer. Morningstar. Darling, beloved, mine and not-mine in equal measures. _

_ The only thing that moves is the red ribbon puddling like blood, stirring in an unfelt wind as Sandalphon crosses the blank white space in a bound and kneels, dragging the empty thing-that-was-him into his arms and keening. It’s not real, whispers the wind, and he knows - but it was real, and the hurt still is. He’s mourned Lucifer every night of his life, it feels like, and the grief in him is still cold and harsh and hungry. It hasn’t been sated by his heart and soul, it wants everything else too, and it’s going to get it - even if only in dreams. Even if it doesn’t have to, whispers the wind, and he bends his head to press an unfelt kiss into swansdown hair, a silent farewell to a beloved nightmare. _

_ He wakes, and Lucio is left there alone, watching the dream-corpse of little Lucifer fading into the nothing whence it came. The slow persistence of it tells him that this is a group dream, a shared dream, and he waits in his turn for whoever else is here, idly nudging the space into something more comfortable - a coil of rope, a sunrise ship’s deck, a tiny new table holding hot chocolate. _

_ “If you wanted something to bend me over, you should’ve said.” Purrs Belial, and Lucio sighs as he plucks the primarch from behind him, sits him on the rope like a scruffed kitten, pushes himself fully into his persona. _

_ “Business before pleasure, handsome,” he purrs right back, draping himself artfully over his own coil of luxuriant softness, “we mustn’t get ahead of ourselves.” _

* * *

Cagliostro makes it through six gingersnaps and two mugs of tea before the curl of feathers on the bed moves, white wings tucking tighter as brown shift upward. There’s an indistinct murmur of voices from the two on the bed, and then the darker wings fold out of sight, and Sandalphon slips from beneath the protective blanket of Lucifer’s wings of his own volition for the first time in days, a frazzled butterfly sliding loose from his chrysalis. Lucifer rises after him, shoulders taut and expression wary, and Cagliostro feels weary just looking at the pair of them, at the lines of tension writ large across their bodies.

She pushes it aside, tosses them a careless grin. “Good morning, sleepyheads! Tea?” And it takes her an absolutely monstrous effort to not actually laugh at the twin expressions of mild insult on both primarchs’ faces, but she manages it. “Your coffee things are all where you left them, coffee boy, but your beans are all a week or so old.”

Sandalphon grimaces, then hesitates, plucking at the ruin of his hooded shirt. “I think it - might be nice to have a bath first, actually.” Very pointedly does not look down - the sticky, shell-stiff feeling of the cloth beneath his fingers is enough of a reminder that he’s soaked in his own dried blood.

The alchemist nods, setting her mug aside. “Do you feel up to going down to your level, or should I see if this floor’s bath is empty?”

He hesitates, looks to Lucifer - who doesn’t meet his eyes, and he frowns at that - turns back to Cagliostro. “My level, I guess. I can’t exactly go running around naked.”

“Funny you should say so,” and goodness but her tone is dry, “because sunspot there pretty much did exactly that. I’m going to be wanting that blanket back at some point, by the way.”

Sandalphon, disaster that he is, promptly goes cherry red - Lucifer, on the other hand, somehow manages to make absolute mortification look  _ becoming _ , pink delicately highlighting his cheekbones and neck, all the way down to his chest.

Cagliostro beams, slips from her seat and takes up the tea things. “I’ll go get you some clothes, shall I?” Considers Lucifer. “I’ll see if Lucio doesn’t have something spare; you’re practically the same size.”

* * *

_ “What brings you here, little old me?” Belial leans forward, picks up one of the cups of hot chocolate, dips in the tip of one finger and curls his tongue around it. “Realized I can make it worth your while to let us go?” _

_ Lucio watches as he sips at his own drink, sets the cup down and licks his lips. “No, Belial. I wasn’t lying - I really can’t do anything to release you, the mechanism is entirely outside my control. Intentionally so.” _ _   
_ _ Belial narrows his eyes, sets his own cup aside. “Why, then?” _

_ Lucio hesitates, keeps his face carefully blankly smiling. “Why not?” Glances up at the suspicious primarch. “You seem like you could use a friend.” _

_He’s gone before Belial can reply, though_ not because he intended to be, but because there’s a tiny alchemist shaking him like a mixed drink and she only stops when he pries her hands away. “Cagliostro?” He mumbles, and his voice is heavy with sleep. “What?”

“Lucifer needs clothes.” She shrugs. “You’re closest to his size.”

He groans, drops his face into the pillow and waves a hand at his wardrobe, muffling out a, “g’head.” Listens as Cagliostro rummages, withdraws a couple of hangers with a click and a rustle, bustles back out of his room without so much as a “by your leave.”

_ When he slips back into the dream world, Belial is already gone. _

* * *

Lucifer stumbles a little as he rises, still uncertain of his legs - Sandalphon’s under his arm before he’s had the chance to try and steady himself, and they lean into a wobbly sort of triangle for a moment before they both have their feet under them. They stick close to each other in a mutual, silent agreement that neither’s really likely to make it downstairs alone, and in that way they slip (mercifully unseen) down to where Cagliostro’s waiting for them, arms full of clothes. She doesn’t say anything, just holds out the bundle of garments and nods at the door behind her, and Sandalphon groans in pre-emptive delight as he pushes into the bathroom, Lucifer sidling after him.

It’s actually fairly impressive for being on an airship - this close, he can sense Gabriel’s magic singing in the walls and floor, Michael’s weaving into the harmony at the showerheads and the tub in the corner. He keeps his eyes fixed on the line of windows set in the outside wall as he tugs absently at the knot holding the blanket around his hips, listening to the soft rustle of Sandalphon disrobing off to one side. Does his level best, too, not to think of the stiffness of his feathers, the fine spray of dried blood coating them, absently hoping the water alone will take care of it despite knowing it won’t -

“Lucifer?” He jumps, the blanket falling away, and Sandalphon goes pink, looking away from his torso and flinching violently as he gets an actual, clear look at Lucifer’s wings, bare feet padding on the tile as he approaches. “Are you hurt?”

“It’s - mostly not mine,” he murmurs, “I healed everything as quickly as I could, I -”

Sandalphon’s arms around him are a surprise, but he’s suddenly shaking hard enough that he really does need the support, lets himself be guided under the showerheads and set leaning against the wall as Sandalphon turns on three of them and slips back to his side.

“Do you - do you want me to help you wash them?” Sandalphon’s voice is soft, steady - Lucifer doesn’t even think about it, nodding even before he’s done talking.

“Please.”

* * *

Sandalphon is mildly surprised at how steady his hands are as he gathers up shampoo and soft washcloths, dumps his clothes off the chair in the corner and brings it too, setting it in the midst of the pouring water and guiding Lucifer to sit with his chest against its back, wings spread and drooping under the spray of the showerheads. The water goes softly rose pink as the feathers slick with it, and Lucifer sighs a shaky little sigh, flashing him a smile. “Thank you, Sandalphon.”

He shrugs helplessly, knowing he’s blushing but unable to do anything about it. “I - haven’t done anything yet.” Clears his throat. “I’ll - I’ll be careful, anyway, promise.”

“I trust you,” Lucifer murmurs, his voice almost lost to the patter of falling water, and lifts his wings slightly, invitingly.

Sandalphon goes straight to his knees beside him, and has to will his hands not to shake as he  reaches for the shampoo and the first of the cloths. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> in which things Shift Course, Just A Little.


	22. Lubrication

Lucifer loses track of the time as he sits under the water, Sandalphon gently cleaning the blood from his plumage. He counts, instead, the strokes of Sandalphon's hand with the cloth, the slow, careful touches that guide him to flex or lift or bend his wings, the tiny, thoughtful noises that slip from Sandalphon's lips as he works. He moves around Lucifer slowly, occasionally swapping out washcloths as they grow stained, and the air fills with softly floral steam, the smell of the soap hiding and mellowing the stench of old ichor, transparent red rivulets diluting pale pink as they twirl down the drain. His touch is gentle, thorough, deliberate, and Lucifer feels something in him unraveling in the most wonderful way. The washcloths seem to work well - he can feel them dimly where the fabric brushes skin at the base of each feather - but only where each plume is independently dirtied.

Sometimes, when they’re caked together, Sandalphon forgoes the cloth entirely, working his bare fingers gently into the mess, opening paths for the water to flow through, to loosen the grime of blood enough to wash it away. Sometimes his fingers brush skin, when he does that. Sometimes they linger, little sparks of light against his flesh. It feels painfully wonderful, and he’s a little sad when Sandalphon finishes with the last of his wings, the lowest on the left, and rises. But then he hesitates. “...want me to do your hair, too?”

Lucifer, struck breathless by _how much he wants that_ , nods. Sandalphon hums softly in acknowledgement, there's a fresh burst of the floral scent as he dispenses some more shampoo into his palm, and then his fingers are working into Lucifer's hair and the ex-supreme primarch's vision goes hazy. Sandalphon’s gentle ministrations to his wings were shudderingly intense, even though his touch was mostly through cloth - now, with nothing between them, the slow massaging of Sandalphon's fingertips against his scalp is making it difficult for Lucifer to not forget he has bones in favor of oozing into a puddle on the floor. Sandalphon's a starburst of warm light, a soft, familiar contrast to the brilliant flow of fire and water over his wings and back, and he sings under his breath as he works, tiny touches of his own stardust aether sparking over Lucifer's skin.

Lucifer closes his eyes, tilts his head into Sandalphon's chest (shameless, and too blissed out to care that he is) and smiles helplessly at the swell of trembling warmth in his core. _Oh. There you are._

Sandalphon works the lather through his hair, rinses it away (careful to slick the sudsy water away from his face) - pauses once he’s done, uncertain, and promptly squeaks in surprise as Lucifer loops an arm around his waist, holding him in place. “Thank you.” He murmurs into Sandalphon’s chest, then lets him go - debates standing, discards that idea as unwise, scoops up the shampoo bottle and beckons. “Let me?”

“I’m -” Sandalphon starts, hesitates, brows knit and lips pursed, shakes his head and smiles a shy, precious little smile. “If you want.”

“Of course I do.” 

Sandalphon steps around him as Lucifer turns to sit properly, settles on his knees with his back to Lucifer, bracketed by his legs. It’s a little awkward tending Sandalphon’s wings (only his own two, the ones Lucifer designed) from where he sits, but he does his best, and he can feel the smaller primarch relaxing by degrees, leaning into him, wings draping over his thighs. He slicks the last of the wet brown plumes between his fingers, gently touches Sandalphon’s shoulder. “Hair too?”

He feels his core warm as Sandalphon bobs his head, murmurs a plaintive little, “please?”

Lucifer guides the smaller primarch to lean fully against his leg, head tipped back against his knee, and gently starts working shampoo into his messy locks. It’s slow going at first; Sandalphon’s hair is unruly at the best of times and it keeps tangling around Lucifer’s fingers, but as he carefully picks out the knots and massages Sandalphon’s scalp, it gets easier. By the time he rinses the soap away, Sandalphon’s hair is smooth as a slick of brown silk, he’s turned to drape his entire weight over Lucifer’s right knee, and he’s smiling the sweetest, most blissful smile, eyes half-lidded in feline contentment.

Lucifer gently disentangles his fingers from Sandalphon’s hair, tenderly pushes a soaking lock out of his eyes. “Good?” 

The other primarch sighs, tilts his head into the touch. “Yeah,” he murmurs, sleepy and warm, soft red eyes intent on Lucifer’s face, “yeah, this is good.”

The angle is awkward, and he knows he shouldn’t, but they’re both safe and content and _here_ and he’s wanted this for _so long_ -

He starts to bend, and as though reading his mind Sandalphon surges up to meet him halfway in a kiss that’s awkward and messy and desperate, so perfect he can barely stand it. His arms find their way around the smaller primarch, pull him in tight and close and everything is _warm_ and _right_ and _Sandalphon_ and he knows it has to end at some point but _not yet, please._ He draws back for a breath, but Sandalphon isn’t having any of that, chasing his lips with a breathless whine - buries his hands in Lucifer’s hair as he settles into his lap, making tiny little pleading noises deep in his throat.

* * *

Sandalphon isn’t sure which of them started this, all he knows is that one moment he was leaning on Lucifer’s knee and the next they were trying to devour each other. Lucifer pulls away for air and he chases the kiss with a whine because he’s spent the past two millennia breathing; he can give it up for the next two for this. Everything is hot and wet and slippery, he can feel Lucifer trembling as he’s pulled closer, as he wriggles up into Lucifer’s lap and presses in as close as he can possibly get, brilliant sparks of fire and water and light bursting in the infinitesimal space between them.

* * *

Cagliostro cracks the door to check on the two archangels - then sighs, wads up a towel and chucks it at Sandalphon’s head. It flops over him with a wet little squelch, and for a moment both primarchs freeze, then Lucifer fixes her with a look so disappointed she almost apologizes. It takes an actual effort not to, in fact, but she manages it, puts on a scolding tone in return. “Don’t look at me! I just wanted to make sure you hadn’t fallen asleep.” Pauses, flashes them a grin. “Remember, though, this is only a semi-private room. Your actual quarters are, you know -” she waves down the hall, “- over there. Maybe continue your activities there, _after_ you’re done here?”

She shuts the door after that, leaving them sputtering - but she hears the showers turn off, and grins as she leans back against the wall, standing guard. 

* * *

_Lucio is doing something stupid. It’s not necessarily dangerous - not for him, not really - but it’s a lot of effort, it’s perhaps a bit tricky, and it’s more likely to be a bad experience than a good one. All in all - stupid._

_As with everything else in his life, he’s disregarding that fact, and doing it anyway._

_The dream world flows past in ribbons and rivulets and he trails his fingers through it - nudges Michael’s dreams Gabriel’s way (they’re napping too, it’s adorable, they’re adorable) and pushes on with dogged determination. He’s dreaming his way towards a fight, most likely, and it’s going to be unpleasant. On the off chance it’s_ **_not,_ ** _though -_

_Well, there’s something to be said for taking risks, and anyway he wants to see how things are holding up._

_He flows over the threshold of the void like mist, coalesces into himself and takes a good look around. Lucilius, surprisingly, hasn’t done much to attempt to alter his surroundings - he’s sitting on one of the protuberances of darkness swelling the floor-analogue, letting the pleasantly balmy breeze ruffle his hair and wings (startlingly ill-groomed for such a fastidious - nay, fussy - personality), leg bouncing as he fidgets. Belial’s curled up on another swelling not far from Lucilius, cocooned in his wings and - Lucio feels a vague twinge of guilt - trembling faintly with evident pain. He’s silent about it, which is strange, considering everything he’s seen and heard of Belial - his whipcrack wit and silver tongue scarcely ever at rest._

_And yet, he supposes it makes sense; Lucilius is, he knows, unlikely (at best) to be sympathetic. Since there’s no point in making a sound, Belial suffers in silence._

_Well, he can do something about that, at least - sinks into mist and flows easily past Lucilius (doesn’t bother saying anything to him; his creation has made his desire to not be disturbed by him_ **_very_ ** _clear by this point), manifesting himself quietly next to Belial._

_The primarch squints at him, bares his still-draconic fangs. “What,” he rasps, “do you want?”_

_Lucio pauses, really thinks it over - finally shrugs. “I feel I owe you for not banishing you less - violently. It was in my power, but I didn’t think to, and it was unnecessary to do you all the harm I did.” Settles on the edge of the black-velvet platform. “Is it alright if I heal you?”_

_“I can’t stop you,” Belial mutters, dropping a wing over his face, “whatever.”_ _  
_ _“If you don’t want me to, I won’t.” Lucio sits back with a little frown. “It’s an offer, not a decree.”_

_The primarch squints up at him, around the wing, finally nods a short, sharp little nod. “Go ahead.”_

_“Alright - I’ll be as gentle with this as I can. Please hold still.” He hums a few short notes, leans down and ghosts his hands just over Belial’s skin, not quite touching, a little glimmer of gold drifting down to knit the wounds he senses. There are more than he expected - from what he’s seen from the others, they heal almost as quickly as he does, and it’s been a few days. Belial should, in theory, only have a few bruises at this point - and yet his ribs are still cracked, his wings strained, the hole he blasted in his own chest trying to harm Lucifer and Sandalphon still raw and oozing. He heals as much of it as he dares - he doesn’t want to risk spending too much energy here in the void - finally pulls his hands away and shakes the stardust from his fingertips as Belial’s breathing settles into an easy rhythm. “Better?”_

_He shifts his wings, folds them back and rolls onto his stomach, lounging casually. “Much. What can I do to thank you?”_

_“You could try not attempting to murder anyone else,” Lucio offers, tone dry, and Belial barks out a laugh, “no, really though, you don’t have to. I did this of my own volition.”_

_“What, you don’t want anything?” Sharp-nailed fingers walk up his thigh, scrape delicately at his hipbone. “Anything at all? Are you_ **_sure?_** _”_

_Lucio gently takes Belial’s hand between his own, grinning. “Ask me again some other time.” Pauses, lowers his voice. “If you want.”_

_Belial looks, for once, genuinely_ **_confused_** _. “That’s a... yes?”_

_“That’s a ‘later.’” Lucio lets his hand go, wisps to his feet. “You know how to find me, dreamwalker.”_

_He winks, and dissolves into wakefulness._

 

The shallow scratches on his hip sting pleasantly as they fade.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, uh. I am genuinely not sure how, er, explicit this should get. If it gets that far. I dunno, guys.


	23. Torque

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay I thought this over and just to be safe - TW: semi-graphic depiction of torture; skip the section starting "Belial fucked up." if that's a thing that'll do you hurt.

Lucio isn’t really a sneaky person. Clever, sure, a liar of the first water, absolutely - but he’s made of star-stuff and sunbeams, he’s a creature of the light first and foremost and always. So going into the Singularities’ personal armory, where he’s definitely not invited, to steal one of the more dangerous weapons they’ve hoarded?

Somewhat outside his comfort zone.

He doesn’t feel _bad_ about it, exactly - it’s arguably protecting his friends the captains from Belial’s further influence - but it’s just enough of a breach of trust to leave him feeling antsy. Their armory isn’t guarded or locked - because they _trust their crew_ , fancy that - and that makes him feel almost worse about it. He hopes it’s not so much of a breach that they feel the need to start locking things up; that’s a loss of innocence he never wants to cause anyone, least of all them.

It isn’t hard for him to find the scythe, though it’s not where he expected it to be - in fact, it’s nowhere near the tidy display rack holding Michael’s sword and Gabriel’s staff, Raphael’s bladed disc and Uriel’s craggy fist. It’s not on any of the display racks, or in any of the cases, either - it’s buried in the heap of old, oily rags the captains really ought to get rid of, in a shadowy corner. Which, if he thinks about it, really does make sense. For all that he’s felt the presence of Belial’s weapon aboard for nearly two months (though he hadn’t known what exactly it _was_ until just now), he’s never actually seen either of the singularities _using_ it.

Just like Belial, he thinks, handing something over for his own benefit - because of course it is, he can feel the primarch’s power thrumming through the smooth haft of the scythe, warding off attention even as it binds him to the sky. Feathers of shadowdark energy wind around his fingers as he hefts it, seeking a purchase on him that they really aren’t capable of - and just like that, he suddenly doesn’t feel bad about taking it. He can handle the way the thread of Belial’s presence probes and prods at his mind, subtle and gentle - a mortal would be in serious danger of succumbing entirely to its influence, given time.

He leaves the armory with the scythe tucked under his arm, unsurprised but still relieved that no one is there to see, takes it straight back to his room and sits down on the bed and sets it on his lap, anchoring it there with one hand. “Right.” He looks at it, gives the haft a little rub with his thumb, feels the thread of presence give a ripple of acknowledgment, and lets his approval brush up against it in return. “Just to make this easier for you.”

Lucio tucks the scythe beneath his mattress, then sits back and thinks about what he’s actually going to _do_ about Belial. The primarch is - he’s certainly done some awful things, but Lucio has never been one to write someone off as a lost cause. 

Besides, now that Lucifer’s around, he can’t go picking on Sandalphon all the time anymore. He needs someone new to tease, and Belial seems like he’d enjoy that. It’s a win all around, he thinks, and settles back against his pillow to scheme.

* * *

Sandalphon can’t seem to stop touching Lucifer, not now that he knows he’s allowed. He holds onto his hand all through the rest of their time bathing, fingers intertwined until they have to split to dry themselves (shaking water everywhere from their saturated wings) and slip into the loose, clean clothes Cagliostro brought. Lucifer is bright-eyed and blushing, so beautiful he can’t stand it, and Sandalphon stops him on the way to the door, tugs him down impulsively into another kiss, this one slow and soft, sweet and tender. Lucifer makes the tiniest little whimpering noise when he lets go, presses their foreheads together, smiling brilliantly. “Sandalphon?”

“Lucifer?” He echoes, and he can feel his own smile, goes up on tiptoes to kiss him _again_ , he can’t _possibly_ not.

“I’m so glad you’re here.” Lucifer kisses him, this time, just the faintest brush of lips against lips. “I’m _so glad_ you’re here, Sandalphon.”

“I’m glad you’re here too.” He murmurs, suddenly shy, weaving his fingers together with Lucifer’s and tugging softly. “We - we should - the galley’s not far and I can roast some fresh, or - or the jars are airtight, the beans should be alright still. We can have that cup of coffee that - that we didn’t get to before.”

Lucifer’s expression goes just a little wistful. “That sounds lovely.”

He swallows hard, squeezes Lucifer’s hand fiercely. “And this time we can talk for as long as you’d like. I’m not going _anywhere._ ” More softly. “I’m not leaving you behind ever again.”

Lucifer winces, tugs him to a stop a step from the door. “Sandalphon, I - I’m sorry.” Cups his cheek in the hand that isn’t being held, steps in close. “For all the times I left you. For all the times I made you feel unwanted.”

“You didn’t -”

“That I didn’t intend to do it doesn’t mean that it wasn’t done.” Bends his head, presses his lips softly, so softly, to Sandalphon’s forehead. “I’m sorry it took me so long to see. I’ll do better this time, I promise.”

Sandalphon feels his throat tighten, pushes up on tiptoes again to steal another kiss. “And - and I’ll talk to you. We should’ve talked so much more.”

“We’ll get it right, this time.” Lucifer whispers against his lips, presses in to kiss him again, and again, and a third time -

A loud bang against the door causes them both to jump, all Lucifer’s wings shooting up and fluffing in alarm as he yanks Sandalphon back and behind him and - realizes, abruptly and with great embarrassment, that _Cagliostro is waiting for them out there._

Behind him, the smaller primarch leans his forehead against his back. “You know you don’t have to protect me like this anymore.”

Lucifer stiffens, but nods. “I know.”

“But you’re going to do it anyway?” Sandalphon’s voice is soft, affectionate, and Lucifer nods again.

“It’s selfish, but please indulge me.” He murmurs, feels Sandalphon’s arms slip around his waist and squeeze once before the smaller primarch lets go and slips back in front of him, pausing with one hand on the door, the other tangled with his.

“We’ll have to trade off, then. I’m _keeping_ you this time.”

Lucifer feels something knot in his throat, but nods one final time, squeezing Sandalphon's hand as they step out into the hallway together.

* * *

Belial fucked up.

Belial fucked up _badly_ , Lucilius is making _damn sure_ he knows it, and even if it's all he deserves - hell, even if he'd usually get off on it - it's just too much and there's no way to stop it. He can’t get them out; the Speaker’s told him twice he can’t. Lucilius doesn’t believe that. Belial has no idea what to do about it.

He _really_ fucked up - but at least Lucilius hasn’t severed his connection with his scythe yet. At least he has that tenuous tether to -

A little tug at the thread of his energy spooling out to his weapon draws him away from the mess of his mind, and he reaches out, feels stardust trickling down the connection and realizes Lucio - the _Speaker_ , he sternly reminds himself, their _jailor_ \- has it. Not the kind of information he wants ‘cilius to have, it wouldn’t make him happy at _all_ , so he buries it deep and tries to ignore it. Tries to ignore the soft, sunny approval that follows his acknowledgment of Lucio’s indirect presence.

Tries not to feel a little bit warm that the weird bastard actually tried to make it easier to find him.

Fails miserably at all of that - but manages to keep the reason why he’s even a little happy buried away from Lucilius’ angry prying, lets him believe it’s just because of the healing he’s carefully and thoroughly undoing.

“Why did you let the _Speaker_ touch you?” His messiah hisses, and Belial goes limp under his clawed fingertips, lets him re-gouge the hole in his chest.

“You were - bored.” He wheezes, turns his head just a little, imperceptibly, to avoid the spikes on ‘cilius’ knuckles gouging into his eyes as he’s backhanded for talking back; they rip down his cheekbone instead. “Figured - you’d like this.”

Lucilius scoffs, grabs the membrane of Belial’s upper right wing and smears the ichor from his clawtips on it like a napkin, ripping the delicate flesh heedlessly. “Or you thought you could get away from your punishment early and, now that you’ve been thwarted, you’re grovelling. Sycophant.” He raises one foot, plants it on Belial’s throat, leans down, choking the primarch. “You’ll lie here, in whatever state I choose to leave you, and wait until _I_ decide it’s time for you to be useful. You’re _mine_ , Belial, _I_ made you, and _you_ have no say in what happens here. And I will keep teaching you this lesson until it _sticks_ in your empty, worthless head.”

Belial blinks up at him in as conciliatory a fashion as he can manage, does his best not to gasp audibly when the pressure’s removed from his larynx and he can breathe again. Lucilius’ clawed fingers run gently through his hair, smearing it with the last sticky remnants of his blood. “You’ll behave now.”

It’s not a question, so he doesn’t answer - just lies there, obedient, and lets Lucilius pet him.

* * *

Lucio almost bounces as he approaches the bathroom, sees Cagliostro standing guard. “Oh! Has my little brother finally scraped himself out of bed?”

“Your what?” The alchemist blinks up at him. “If you mean sunspot, he and coffee boy are getting cleaned up right now. You’re gonna have to wait your turn.”  
“Oh, that’s fine, I only need one showerhead, my wings are -” he goes for the door, runs straight into the immovable object that the little blonde girl has made of herself, “- fine?”

“I said,” and she leans up, yanks him down by the collar to glare into his face, “you’re going to have to _wait. Your. Turn._ ”

There’s a low, but distinct, moan from the room and Cagliostro doesn’t even look away from her glare, just raises a fist and bangs it hard against the door - Lucio hears the whoosh of spread wings and stifles a giggle as he steps back, expression conciliatory. “I’ll wait, I’ll wait.”

It’s only a moment later when Lucifer and Sandalphon slip out into the hall, hand in hand - and Lucio neatly sidesteps Cagliostro and launches himself at them, wrapping one arm around each and absolutely beaming. “You look wonderful! I take it the showers helped?”

Sandalphon wheezes as his arm tightens around the smaller primarch’s neck - gently but just enough that he can’t talk, so Lucifer has to. “They were - fine, yes - please ease up, you seem to be choking Sandalphon.”

Lucio absolutely expects the elbow to the ribs he gets for that - and even as he stumbles back, wheezing (playing it up a little for sympathy), he beams. They’re both here and well. It’s one step towards things being as they ought to, and that feels - very good, honestly.

Now, he reflects, waving to Lucifer and Sandalphon and heading into the bathroom to finally wash the sticky remnants of hot chocolate from his hair, he just has to figure out what to do with Belial.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Belial is kind of a dick, but...


	24. Assembly Line

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning: Lucilius. Skip the first bit if you just want happy fluff. :)

Lucilius is growing tired of the charade already. Time doesn’t pass in here - at least in no way he can count - but it feels like it’s been an age and he’s so sick of being alone with Belial it’s mildly frightening. He’d been a fool to make the primal so devoted - certainly it can be _useful_ , but it makes the creature so terribly _clingy_. 

At least the fool can serve him well one more time - as raw materials. He’s tried the limits of this place, and he can make it give him tools, but not the substances he’ll need to make anything - but he’s made do with the remnants of scrapped primals before. He hasn’t yet completed a design, but given the relatively high quality of what had been put into crafting Belial, even if it was just the extra parts he didn’t use for Lucifer, he feels confident he can make something useful of the scraps. He just needs the right idea.

* * *

Sandalphon has never felt so _light_ before. It’s impossible, honestly, this entire - everything is impossible. Lucifer’s there by his side, warm and bright and smiling, hand in his and wings curling towards him like a damp benediction, and it’s - he never dreamed he could have this.

And yet he does. 

They turn the corner and he pushes the door open - holding it for _Lucifer_ and that sends a fresh shiver of delight down his spine, strangely, this tiny mundane thing - turns to look and finds Eugen perched on a stool at the counter, whittling away at a rounded piece of wood. The skyfarer glances up from his task - beams, sets knife and material down and hops from his stool, grasps Lucifer’s hand between his own and shakes it warmly. “Lucifer, hello! It’s been awhile, huh?” Flashes Sandalphon a little smile, too. “And Sandalphon, you’re looking well - good to see you up and about again, the both of you. I was just finishing up - Djeeta asked me to fix your coffee grinder’s handle.”

“Fix -?” Sandalphon starts, remembers how he’d panicked - only a week ago? It seems so much longer - and splintered the wooden piece of the crank, and feels his ears go a little red. “Ah - thank you.”

“Hey, no problem.” He chuckles. “Can’t let our resident caffeine gremlin give himself splinters, after all.”

Lucifer makes the tiniest little breathy sound, and when Sandalphon glances at him he realizes he’s _laughing_ , near-silent but so happy he’s practically aglow, and Sandalphon can’t even bring himself to _mind_ that it’s at his being called a gremlin, it’s another beautiful impossibility to add to today’s tally. Eugen chuckles from the other side, and he goes a little more red, turns to scold - realizes the skyfarer’s got a faraway, kind smile on his face and closes his mouth because there’s sorrow there, behind the fondness. “Y’know, I’m happy for you.” He turns back to his work, sliding onto his stool, picking up a scrap of sandpaper and rubbing at the wood, smoothing away the whittling marks. “Second chances are rare. You take good care of yours, alright?”

“I fully intend to,” Lucifer murmurs before he can respond, and Sandalphon’s wings arch around him to hide his face, because he’s so embarrassed, so happy, he’s probably going to cry, “I never dreamed I was worthy of this, but I absolutely intend to be.”

And really, what else can Sandalphon do but reach up and kiss him for that? Lucifer’s always been worthy, but if he needs reminding - well, Sandalphon feels that’s something he can do. And he will, just as often as Lucifer needs, and that gladly.

* * *

Lucio comes out of the showers feeling almost giddy - it’s incredible, really, what two primarchs joined can do together. He’s not a primal himself exactly, but that doesn’t stop the flow of Gabriel and Michael’s mingled mana being a sensory delight, and he’s pretty sure he’s literally glowing just a little with absolute well-being. Not that he _needs_ recharging, of course - but it feels lovely regardless.

He wanders damply down the hall, towel around his neck, idling towards the galley and considering his next move. It’s absurdly tempting to go back to sleep and bother Belial - but no, no, he shouldn’t seem too eager; this is far too delicate a balancing act. It’s challenging in a way he’s not experienced in a _while_ and he rather likes that; nettling Sandalphon is all well and good, he’s such a cranky little thing, but Belial’s reactions have _layers._

Mmm, but he can get away with harassing him _tonight,_ surely - after all, sleeping at night is a habit they all seem to get into eventually. Plausible deniability is one of the greatest gifts of imitating mortals, he thinks, and beams at the ceiling. This also gives him plenty of time to tease Lucifer and Sandalphon - there are absolutely _hours_ until nightfall.

Yes, he thinks, that’ll do.

* * *

Djeeta yawns her way into the galley, Gran in tow, just as Lucio swans in the opposite door. The actor looks a little crestfallen when he catches her eye - he was probably going to hassle Sandalphon again, then, he knows she won’t stand for it - but perks back up and waves when he sees her brother. Gran, unfortunately, blushes like a tomato (curse their paleness, anyway) and waves back, twitches as Djeeta elbows him.

“You know what a troll he is,” she hisses, and nudges him again, “why do you encourage him like that?”

“Because he’s _hot_ , okay?” Gran hisses back, jabbing her in the side, “and you _know it_ , how are you immune?”

“His being hot doesn’t mean I’m going to let him get away with being a dickhead!” She bumps her shoulder into his, gentle enough that he doesn’t stumble, hard enough to make him sway a little. 

He bumps back into her, and _does_ stumble, but catches himself - and promptly walks into a wall of cream-and-brown feathers. Sandalphon yelps, drops his wing - he’s _blushing_ \- and Lucifer, standing beside him, flashes them both a shy little smile, a tiny wave. _Oh no,_ Djeeta thinks, feeling her cheeks color as she smiles back, _he’s adorable._

“Si -” Sandalphon starts, clears his throat, “Djeeta, Gran. It’s good to see you.”

Gran’s jaw drops, and Djeeta grins. “Finally decided to use our names, Sandy?”  
“I can’t call you Singularity when you’re together, it sounds strange.” He grumbles, and looks away. Lucifer laughs the softest, gentlest little laugh.

“He’s terrible at showing affection, sometimes.” The ex-supreme primarch smiles down at them. “Thank you for looking out for him.”

“N-no problem!” Djeeta squeaks. Gran snickers, and she hip-checks him viciously. “And, um, welcome aboard the Grandcypher, Lucifer - we’re really glad you’re here.”

Sandalphon looks at her with the most openly grateful expression she’s yet seen on him, and she can’t not after that - she launches herself at him and bundles him into her arms, damp feathers tickling her shoulders and damp hair tangling around her fingers as she ruffles it viciously. He squawks in surprise, she squeezes tight, then releases him and steps back - giggling as he tries, fruitlessly, to smooth down the bird’s nest she’s made of his hair.

“Yeah, um, what Dee said,” Gran adds, voice quiet and expression shy, “and, uh, thanks again for, um. Y’know, catching me, that one time.”

Lucifer looks flabbergasted, but smiles anyway. “It was no trouble. I am... glad to see you and Djeeta are doing well.”

“I’m - we’re - glad to see you well now, too.” He’s a little more tentative than Djeeta, but no less warm. “And you’re welcome here as long as you like, before you ask. You don’t _have_ to stay if you don’t want to! But you’re welcome to.”

Sandalphon’s expression has never been so warm and fond when turned on Gran before and it’s _weird_ but he finds he likes it. “Sandalphon, how’re you doing? And um - oh, Eugen, you finished?”

“Yup!” The elder skyfarer grins, gathering up his oilcloth full of dust and shavings. “One splinter-safe gremlin handle, as ordered.”

Djeeta snorts - Lucifer, astonishingly, does too, even as he slips an affectionate arm around Sandalphon’s shoulders. “Thank you very much.” His voice is mellow and warm.

“Yeah, uh. Thank you.” Sandalphon chimes in, after a moment. “For taking the time.”

“Eh, you’re welcome.” Eugen chuckles. “You’re a grouch, but you’re _our_ grouch.”

“What he said!” Lucio chimes in, never content to be in the background for too long, and slings his arms around Sandalphon and Lucifer both, squeezing tight. Djeeta tenses to step in - but Sandalphon is surprisingly calm about it, grumbling vaguely but putting up with the embrace, even drooping his wings out of Lucio’s way.

Lucifer, even more astonishingly, seems to _like_ it.

Djeeta glances sidelong at her twin, who is already looking at her - Gran nods a tiny nod. Two steps forward in unison, and they wrap themselves around the two archangels, Gran on one side, Djeeta on the other. Lucifer actually honest-to-the-skies _squeaks_ and Djeeta giggles and Sandalphon makes a sound that reminds her of the time she accidentally shut a door on Oliver the cat’s tail -

“Man, what I wouldn’t give to be an artist right now.” Rackam sounds just a little smug, but mostly fond. “Y’all make a cute picture.”

Djeeta clears her throat, steps away from Lucifer with a prim brush of her skirts. “Yeah, whatever. Are we on course, Rackam?”

“Yep! Wind’s fair and all’s clear, we should be in Auguste by day after tomorrow.” He rocks back on his heels, beaming. “Great place for a party, good choice, Cap.”

Sandalphon glances at Djeeta, eyebrows arched. “A party?”

“I did say.” She goes a little pink, grins at him. “Y’know, that we’d throw Lucifer’s welcome back party on the beach, get you two mushrooms some sun. Already told the others, too, so all we gotta do now is, y’know.”

“Get them some swimsuits?” Gran chimes in, and Djeeta goes full-on red. “Bet Korwa fistfights Siero to get to design ‘em.”

“I don’t think she’d - oh who am I kidding, she’d win.” Djeeta laughs, turns to face the two archangels. “But, yeah! Auguste! Sun, sand, sea - probably some silly nonsense with fish or watermelons or something. Good times all around.”

She’s surprised and a little chagrined when Lucifer tears up, backpedals frantically. “I mean, if you don’t like it we absolutely don’t have to -”

“I - no, I love the beaches; I would - would tell Sandalphon about them.” He sniffles - such a strangely vulnerable sound from such an ancient being. “We’re heading there? Now?”

“That’s what I said, yup.” Rackam smiles. “We’ll be there around sunset, day after tomorrow - two days ‘til our first full beach day.”

“You can tell me all about the beaches again while we’re there,” Sandalphon murmurs, and Lucifer bundles him into a tight hug, nearly slapping Gran and Djeeta in the face with his wings as he wraps them around Sandalphon, hiding them both from view.

When Sandalphon tilts his face up for a kiss (a beautiful thing, this silent plea), Lucifer bends to meet him, smiling into the caress as Sandalphon cups his cheeks and dries his tears.

Across the room, Lyria feels the warm-honey swell of his joy, and giggles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a heck of a ride for Sandalphon - but he's done the thing! Lucifer's back! They're in love! Time to hit the beaches!
> 
> Now, what's Lucio gonna do about Belial...?


End file.
